


The Night is Always Darkest Before Dawn

by lawfulknightress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Childhood, First Time, Fluff, Kidnapping, Multi, Parentlock, Post-His Last Vow, Race Against Time, Uncle Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 244,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawfulknightress/pseuds/lawfulknightress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are faced with a challenge neither one of them could have imagined- raising a child on their own. Being the daughter of the great detective and his blogger, as some perks, including the occasional adventure and/or mishap. One day, though, problems come to a head, and will their family be able to weather the storm?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful Bird of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> It starts off dark and heavy, but it gets better. I promise.

“Doctor Watson.”

John Watson lifted his head from his hands at the familiar sound of his name; his eyes dark and rubbed raw, and the lines in his face had deepened credited to an incredibly rough night sitting in St. Bart’s hospital waiting for news. Sherlock, who had fallen asleep in the plastic waiting chair next to his companion, stirred and swallowed as his consciousness returned in a sequence of blinks and yawns.

“Yes?” John replied, his voice hollow and pained. He had known what the fellow doctor was about to say for hours, and he had been praying during that time that he would be wrong. If that made him a terrible and incompetent doctor then so be it. He just wanted this time for his instincts to be wrong.

The pale, blonde doctor shifted uncomfortably and glanced from John’s face to the ground and back again.

_Bit not good_ , Sherlock thought to himself as he sat up straight and placed a warm hand on John’s rigid shoulder. Without words, he assured John of his presence and his concern, _I’m here_.

“I’m so very sorry, Doctor Watson,” the practitioner began, his voice shaky and unsure, obviously a novice to what he’s about to announce. “Your wife… she didn’t…” The young doctor took a deep breath and composed himself. “The accident and childbirth combined caused her to lose too much blood. She went asystole for an hour, sir, and we tried to bring her back, but… I am so very, very sorry.”

John closed his eyes and placed his face back into his shaking palms. Sherlock felt his body stiffen and noticed as John began to vibrate from the strain he’d put on his muscles and decided ask after the second most-important concern. “What about the child- the little girl?” His voice was dark and gruff; more so than he had intended, but his apprehension that John had just lost _everything_ in front of him began to show.

The doctor turned towards Sherlock, thankful to have something else to place his attention on, “Erm, thank you, yes. She’s fine. She’s completely healthy. They’re cleaning her up right now.” He gave a small smile towards Sherlock then turned back to John hesitantly, “Sir, would you like to see your wife?”

John had remained still and composed on his chair, not a single muscle betraying his heart’s grief, and he began to rub at his face. He stood up, straight, soldier-mode activated, and nodded at the young practitioner to lead the way. Sherlock, not a moment behind, jumped to his feet and began to follow them into the hall.

Sherlock had known as well, by the time he had seen Mary, that this was the inevitable end. It was almost humorous, that someone in _their_ circle had died of something so common, so pedestrian, so... _boring_. Mary Watson, at least her current alias, was a renowned assassin and agent of the dark. Her life had been thrown on the line time and time again, and she had had a _few_ near scrapes and misses along the way (as far as John and Sherlock were informed) but nothing as serious and final as this last event. How unfitting for her to lose her life in as mundane a way as a car accident and then child birth.  

Sherlock had received the call from John at nearly half-past two in the morning, and had nearly missed it as he was experimenting with the rate of deterioration of frozen eyeballs in hydrochloric acid. He had heard John’s broken voice over the phone and had hailed a cab before John had even finished his sentence. Mary had apparently been on her way home from an incredibly late night in the surgery, when her cab was hit head on by a drunk driver. The cabbie was pronounced dead on the scene, John had later stated, but Mary had been wounded by glass and metal from the car’s interior and the devastating impact, but was still alive by the time the ambulance had arrived. The shock to her body, however, had caused the child inside of her to panic and fight to find a way out.

Sherlock had arrived just after John in the hospital and had seen Mary’s ambulance pull in and deposit her in the Emergency Unit. He had deduced right then and there, that Mary had not much longer to last, and had begun to imagine any conversation that might ease John’s pain, coming up with nil.

While in the hallway, Sherlock made an effort to make sure that his body was within reach of John, in case needed, but not too close to impose. He didn’t touch John through the walk to the dark room at the end of the hall, but made his presence known to John by remaining in the corner of John’s peripherals.

He studied John from the distance, ( _scared, angry, tired, guilty, lost_ ) formulating an appropriate response to John’s inevitable breakdown. Sentiment had never been Sherlock’s area, and he dreaded this moment more than anything else so far. More than the Best Man Speech. Even more than the Fall. More than anything he had ever encountered in his thirty-six years of existence, Sherlock was _terrified_ of walking into that hospital room. When he did, he would have to accept that Mary was gone ( _not incredibly difficult_ ) and would then have to accept that he had no earthly idea whatsoever of how to help John Watson through this ( _very much incredibly difficult_ ).

The three men stopped in front of emergency operation room and John stared at the numbers painted on the wall, willing himself to move another few steps. The younger doctor took the initiative and pushed open the door, allowing for Sherlock to follow. John remained outside, silent and stone-faced, as the doctor let the door shut quietly.

As soon as the young doctor and Sherlock were safe within the walls of the room and out of John’s earshot, the doctor gave a light moan, placing his face in his newly-ungloved hands, “I’ve never had someone flat-line on me before,” he admitted, “I’ve never lost anyone on my table.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and sniffed indignantly, “If you are going to become so attached to everyone who dies on your watch, I suggest you rethink your choice of career,” he said flatly.

The young doctor glared at him, his breath laboring, “Doesn’t this bother you?” He accused. “Aren’t you upset at all that she’s gone?”

Sherlock turned on his heel and swiftly placed himself too close to the young doctor, glaring with narrowed eyes, “Of course I do, you daft imbecile. I, however, have a personal connection to that woman lying on that table, _you_ do not. Caring in not an advantage in your field of work, and it would be wise of you to remember that. This field will tear you apart if you get this sentimental about every sad soul that has the misfortune to cross your path. Now, I suggest that you reposition yourself into another room until you are needed here again. Your incompetence is stifling here.”

The unnamed doctor’s eyes opened wide in alarm and he pushed backwards out of the room, white as a ghost. Sherlock saw John’s still form as the door swung open, but knew that he would come in when he felt right. Until then, Sherlock had the room to himself.

He walked to the lifeless figure shrouded in a bloody sheet and pulled it from her face with a careful hand. Her normally pleasant face had been twisted in anguish, the lines of it still etched into her face, although all emotion had been cleaned off with the loss of tension in her dead muscles.

He placed his left hand on her forehead, wiping a spot clean with his thumb and placed his lips lightly on her pallid skin.

“Mary,” he began- his voice sure and steady, “I promise you, I will never let harm come to John or your daughter, ever again. I promise to keep them safe, no matter what the cost. Please rest knowing that.” He closed his eyes and touched his lips to her forehead again and lifted the sheet back to cover her face as he headed towards the door.

He stopped after shutting the door quietly behind him and glanced at John. “John…”

John looked directly at him and lifted a hand, “Sherlock, please. I just… I need…” His trembling voice trailed off as he swallowed to stifle the emotions threatening his composure.

Sherlock needed no more incentive to leave. He turned to John fully, and bent down, placing his lips to John’s forehead, his left hand cupping John’s cheek.

“I’ll be here when you need me,” he promised, sparing John the obligatory smile, and instead moving away with a graceful turn to head down the hallway.

“Sherlock?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned back, “Yes, John?”

John shifted uncomfortably in his position, biting his lower lip and glancing at the door as if deciding to go in. “Thank you… You didn’t have to come… I know we’ve been…”

“Stop.” Sherlock interrupted, “None of that. You are the person I care most about in this world, John. I will always be here for you. I promise.” Sherlock chanced a few steps forward, and then John closed the distance, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s torso, and planting his face directly into Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock could feel the ragged breathing against his chest and the dampness in his shirt. He circled John with his arms, gripping tightly, and placed his cheek on top of John’s shivering hair.

For a moment neither of them said a word, the infrequent squeak of cheap shoes against the linoleum in the slow morning business being the only sound that broke the silence that surrounded them. John wept hard and long into the silk covering Sherlock’s chest, until his legs gave out on him, and Sherlock caught him mid-fall, and eased them both onto the ground.

Hours went by then, or perhaps only minutes, ( _time is hard to classify when emotions are high_ ) and John began to recover himself, leaning his back up against the wall connected to the door. Sherlock carefully untied the scarf from around his neck and tied it gracefully onto John’s. He then lifted the edge of the soft fabric to touch John’s face, cleaning up the evidence of his emotions and then rubbed at the flushed skin with his thumbs.

“John,” his voice grumbled, tight with sentiment, “I know this is difficult, and I may not comprehend what exactly it is that you feel, but know that I am here for you. For comforting words; for silence; for whatever you need, John. I will be right here waiting for you.” He lifted John’s chin with his left hand and again kissed his lips to John’s forehead. “You need closure, John. I will be here if you need me.” He motioned to pick John from the ground, and John complied, slowly lifting himself (with Sherlock’s help) to his feet.

“Yeah, alright,” he mumbled. “You can… I know you’re tired… I’ll just…” He motioned for the door and Sherlock nodded. John silently stepped into the room without another second passing and left Sherlock to himself.

 

***

 

He’d had nightmares about instances like this, but the real event is something incredibly surreal and dream-like. He kept waiting for Mary to shake him awake and tell him it was all a dream, or for Sherlock’s violin to bring him back to reality. Neither of these ever happened, though. And John realized that this is no dream, and that Mary Watson was lying dead on an operating table merely two meters away.

He gripped Sherlock’s scarf tightly around his neck and began to walk towards the still figure, hoping he wouldn’t see a familiar face under the sheet.

As he listed the corner of the sheet, he gasped sharply, his knees almost collapsing underneath him at the shock of his wife’s blood on her body. He felt his face contort with anguish and the warmth of sadness spill over his cheeks.

“Mary, I’m so, _so_ sorry…” He sobbed into the empty room. “Please, come back... I love you… I don’t know what I’m going to do… Please, Mary… I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you…” He bent forward and kissed her chilled lips, the feeling of her frozen body sending chills down his spine. The tears mingled with the dried blood on her cheek, and sent a reddish drop cascading down her skin, painting her as it fell. John wrapped his arms around her and held her form close to his, rocking on his feet. “Mary, please… I’m so scared… I don’t know what I’m going to do… I can’t raise a child on my own!”

He sobbed into the sheet for a moment, holding onto her body with force until he felt the need to see Sherlock again; felt the need to have someone hold _him_ again. “Mary, I love you,” he whispered as he placed her down gently on the operating table and kissed her lips a final time before replacing the sheet over her face and shutting down that part of his heart for good.

He rubbed the scarf into his face, removing as much of the evidence of his tears as possible, and inhaled the essence of Sherlock’s shampoo and skin as he breathed in the fabric. The familiar scent calmed his nerves enough to walk forward and out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He leaned his back against the wall and wrapped his nose and mouth in the blue fabric as he anticipated his panic brimming. The faster he gasped into the cloth, the more of the familiar scent he inhaled, and eventually, light-headed, yet still standing, he pushed the cloth back down onto his neck and made his way towards the Maternity Ward.

_This damned hospital is going to be the death of me_ , he thought as he walked down the familiar corridors. First Sherlock, then Mary, the only light this hospital had ever brought into John’s life was this brand new child that he would have no idea how to handle. His feet deftly took him through the familiar halls until he finally laid eyes on a tall shadow gazing into a glass room. Sherlock looked inquisitive, as if posed with a new problem as he examined the small forms in front of him with his eyes.

John stopped next to Sherlock and the both stared wordlessly at the small baby positioned straight in front of them.

“She’s beautiful.” Sherlock stated, breaking the silence.

John couldn’t hide the fraction of a smile as he looked upon his newborn daughter. “She really is.”

Sherlock turned towards him and cocked his head, “Have you chosen a name yet? I assume you would have, but I’m not sure how these things work, really.”

John shrugged, “Not really. Mary wanted to look at her first. She said she’d know the name when she saw her face for the first time.” John swallowed the emotion back down his throat loudly. Sherlock didn’t miss it.

“Evelyn Mary Watson.”

The deep voice startled John, “What?”

“Evelyn Mary Watson. I think that would make a beautiful name for her.”

“Why is that? When did you care about baby names?” John scoffed at the idea of Sherlock Holmes becoming paternal in any way.

“Evelyn is derived from the old English for ‘beautiful bird’. Mary is not only the name of her mother, which as a middle name would honor her memory forever, but is also derived from the Hebrew term for ‘from the bitter ocean’. I think that it would be rather poetic to think that from this bitter sea of unfortunate events that one day she will be able to fly on her own beautiful wings away from it,” Sherlock explained plainly, without removing his eyes from the sleeping child on the other side of the glass.

John felt his throat tighten and he swallowed a sob in his esophagus. “O-okay.”

“Hmm?”

John straightened his back and set his jaw, “I… I like that,” he choked out, fully aware of the tension in his voice.

Sherlock didn’t make notice of it, but instead grinned a slight smile directed towards John.

John smiled back and leaned up against the glass, studying the sleeping form, “What am I going to do, Sherlock? I’m in way over my head.” He took a deep breath and steadied his thoughts. “I have no idea how to care for a child by myself.”

Sherlock sniffed out of his nose, “I think in that respect, our intellects are perfectly matched.” He turned and smiled at John and the warmth of it radiated from him until John was forced to smile back.

Sherlock then straightened his jacket, a habit he picked up from Mycroft as a child to establish that he was nervous or ill-at-ease, “Come back to Baker Street. I’ll help you raise her.”

John snorted incredulously, earning him a slight glare from Sherlock, “You’re kidding, right? I don’t imagine that you’re very set to raise a child yourself, either, mate. Do you even know the first think about caring for another person?” The question presented itself more harshly than anticipated and both parties flinched from it.

An awkward silence filled the hallway.

“I could learn,” Sherlock finally whispered, more to himself than to John. “I’m sure I could, if you’d let me. You work during the day, and I rarely leave the flat, save a case. And Mrs. Hudson is downstairs and I’m sure she has more knowledge about this sort of _stuff_ than both of us combined.” He paused and looked directly at John, “I also think you need the company of people who love and care about you, John. You have a habit of internalizing your problems, and that won’t be conducive of a safe and happy growing atmosphere. You don’t have to do this alone, John. Please… Let me help…” The last words cause John to look Sherlock straight in the eye.

Sherlock’s face was beaming a desire to help and love John and his newborn child, John could see that. He could see no trace of hesitance, fear, or obligation; nothing that would make him feel that Sherlock wasn’t one hundred and ten percent honest about his offer. He broke eye contact and nodded stiffly, “Alright.”

Sherlock hid a quick smile and gazed back though the glass, “Alright.”

Another moment passed and the nurse who was stationed in the maternity ward flitted through the door and addressed them both, “Good morning gentlemen, are one of these bundles yours?”

She smiled cheerily and glanced back and forth between John and Sherlock.

John cleared his throat, “Erm, yes. I’m John Watson.”

The nurse’s face turned sour for only a second, and then morphed to sympathy, “Oh dear, sir. I’m so sorry for your loss. But please know your baby girl is completely safe and healthy.”

Another moment passed as all three of them gazed into the glass at the child lying swaddled in pink cloth.

“Would you like to meet her?” The nurse asked hopefully.

John jerked his head forward at her and then turned toward Sherlock as if looking for confirmation.

“It’s alright.” Sherlock promised. “I’ll be right here.”

The nurse smiled wider, “You can come, too, if you’d like.”

This time, Sherlock questioned John with his eyes, and both men nodded in understanding.

“Alright, then, follow me,” she directed happily.

The two men followed her obediently into a separate room and pulled chairs into the middle of it to wait for John’s newborn daughter to make her grand debut.

John’s knees bounced in anticipation and jiggled the chair he was sitting in until Sherlock’s warm hand covered his knee, willing him to relax.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” John asked pitifully.

Sherlock smiled, “John, I don’t think anyone with an IQ higher than Anderson’s doesn’t like you. You’re her father. She will love you regardless.” He tilted his head along with his smile and John returned the gesture.

John’s breath suddenly caught in his throat as the door opened and the same nurse pushed through, a bundle of pink blankets added in her arms. A little tuft of sandy hair escaped from the pink swaddling as the nurse cooed with the still-sleeping baby.

“Here you go, ‘Dad’,” she added playfully as she carefully placed the small being in John’s arms.

John’s arms tightened lovingly around the small package of warmth in his possession. Even for a newborn, he could tell that she was his daughter. She had the beginnings of his turned nose, his wide-set jaws, and his eyebrow pattern; and yet she also had the distinct eye-shape and cheeks of her mother.

“She’s beautiful,” he breathed out at long last. He stroked her cheek lightly with his thumb and she began to stir. Her eyes opened to produce those same brilliant blue eyes that her father and his father before him had; a testament to the Watson lineage.

“Yes, she is,” Sherlock agreed. He rubbed a hand over John’s shoulder and smiled at him. John turned to him and smiled back.

“Well, if you’re going to help raise her, she’s part your daughter, too, now.” John began to transfer the child into Sherlock’s arms and John’s smile widened as Sherlock’s morphed into a grimace.

“Wait-what? But I-” he protested as John placed her into his large hands.

He gripped her suddenly close to his chest as if afraid he would drop the fragile being in his hands. He blinked profusely as he tried to understand the presence that had invaded his space.

“Erm, hello,” he managed awkwardly, still holding her perfectly still and straight against his chest. He could feel her heat through his shirt. Her heartbeat was much faster than his was, but that’s what is to be expected from babies, he deduced.

He lifted his hand to move a fuzzy from the blanket in front of her mouth, and as he got close to her face, the small child gripped his pinky finger with all of her little might. He froze and turned to John in alarm.

“John… She’s really strong,” he smirked a bit as he wiggled his finger, displaying her power.

John emitted the loudest laugh Sherlock had heard in a long while, “She’s going to have to be to put up with us!”

Sherlock smiled back at John and then looked down to the baby in his arms, “She’s definitely got your eyes, John. She’s beautiful.”

She made a coo of happiness as Sherlock’s face and he giggled (Sherlock Holmes _giggled_ ).

The nurse brought forth the birth certificate and addressed John, “What is her name, Dad?”

John glanced over at the baby in Sherlock’s arms and then to Sherlock himself, “Evelyn Mary Watson.”

The nurse smiled and wrote it down in her journal, scribbling pen against the paper, “What a beautiful name! I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock smiled at John and motioned for him to take his daughter back into his arms.

“Evelyn Mary Watson, huh?” He repeated at John, smirking at his triumph.

John nodded and retrieved the child from Sherlock (after gently releasing Sherlock’s finger from her grasp), “Yeah, I think your explanation was quite… _moving_?” He laughed and looked back down to the form in his arms, “Our little Evelyn…”

Sherlock leaned forward and slightly into John’s shoulder looking down into the face of the newborn baby attempting to go back to sleep with a grin of true happiness.

“Our beautiful little bird.”


	2. Songs and Sentiment

The first night at 221B Baker Street was incredibly arduous.

John and Sherlock had made it back by midday and Mrs. Hudson had relieved them of the child fussing that both of them needed to sleep the night off. Reluctantly, they both ceded a fight and did what they were told, too exhausted to argue. Eventually, Sherlock made it back down the stairs to clean the flat free of experiments and to child-proof it as much as humanely possible in the danger that was 221B. He had never been aware that so many sharp and potentially harmful objects were just lying around the flat precariously.

After clearing most of the hazardous items from the flat, Sherlock travelled downstairs to relieve Mrs. Hudson of her duty.

“Oh Sherlock,” she cooed, cradling the child in her arms with the skill of a seasoned midwife, “what are we going to do about our Dear John?”

Sherlock sat gracefully in a chair at her table and directed his line of sight out of the window, “I don’t know Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know how to help. Sentiment isn’t really… my area…”

Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue and tsk’ed Sherlock, “Oh Sherlock, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself, dear. John is happy to have you here with him and I must admit: it is nice to have you _both_ back again. It finally feels like home.” She smiled and placed her hand on Sherlock’s cheek, tracing his prominent cheekbone with her withered thumb.

He gave her a crooked smile, and glanced at the sleeping child in her arms.

“She’s such a tiny thing,” Mrs. Hudson remarked, fingering with the baby’s hands as she slept.

“She’s an infant, Mrs. Hudson; of _course_ she’s small. The human hips are only so many centimeters wide. Anything larger than-”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted.

“What?”

She cocked her head towards him in a glare of disapproval, “You’re doing it again, dear.”

“Doing what?” His brow furrowed and lips pursed.

“When you get nervous, dear, you ramble. What are you so excited about?”

He brought his eyes to look at Mrs. Hudson’s. Her gaze refused to falter and so he rolled them and sighed, yielding her victory. “I don’t want to hurt him anymore, Mrs. Hudson. I can’t be Mary for him, and I’m afraid that being me won’t be enough. I don’t know anything about children. I can’t imagine I’ll actually be able to help.”

Mrs. Hudson’s hand was still on Sherlock’s face, so she held him as she bent down to kiss his forehead. He closed his eyes and inhaled the familiar perfume on her frail wrist.

“Sherlock, dear. John needs you and you know that- whether or not _either_ of you admits it. Now go on,” she said as she motioned to the door. “Go start a family.”

The word sent a shock through his system: _family_. Would he actually be a part of one now? Not just an odd arrangement of friends and acquaintances, but an actual _family_? Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to believe that it would be true. Families are built on sentiment, and as a self-proclaimed sociopath, he didn’t think he’d have much to spare.

He held out his arms, “I can take her. I’ll just lay her down in her crib until she wakes up.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted his arm, “Alright, dear. You know I’ll be down here if you ever need anything.” She carefully transferred her bundle into Sherlock’s arms and bade him farewell out of the door.

Sherlock stood in the stairway for a moment taking everything in. He became aware of several impossible events that had just come into fruition:

Mary had gone and left John alone with a child.

John had moved back into 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was holding a child without any signs of disgust or animosity.

Sherlock was about to help raise John’s daughter with him in the same home.

Sherlock Holmes was about to become a part of someone’s… _family_.

 

***

 

“John! Make her stop!” Sherlock’s strained baritone cried up the stairway as the small child screamed in his hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her!”

John opened his eyes and groaned as he rolled off of the bed and groggily pulled on a housecoat before he reluctantly traipsed down the stairs.

He pushed the door to the main flat open and clumsily rubbed the sleep from his face with his hand, “What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s bright eyes were wide open, his hair splayed in every direction and John nearly laughed at the sight. “I was holding her and then she just started screaming! Is that normal? What did I do? Is she sick?” His evident worry was also humorous to the blonde flat-mate.

John shook his head and retrieved the screaming child from Sherlock’s arms, “She’s probably just hungry, Sherlock. Grab a bottle for me?” He motioned towards the fridge and Sherlock complied.

As Sherlock opened the fridge door, John gasped in astonishment, “Sherlock! What the…?”

The entire refrigerator was cleaned out and completely vacant of any experiments, body parts, or rotting food. In their places, instead, were more than a dozen bottles of formula fashioned in straight lines filling the shelves.

Sherlock placed his long fingers around one and shrugged at John, embarrassed, “I… Erm… That just kind of happened…”

He quietly closed the door and turned back to John, who was stifling a laugh even as the baby cried in his arms. “You look like shit, Sherlock,” John scoffed as he watched Sherlock warm and test the bottle on his thin, pale wrist; wincing as the blistering formula burned his skin. He then slowly moved towards his chair and waited for Sherlock, cradling the small figure in his arms, rubbing on her flushed cheeks. “Shh, little one. You’re alright. Daddy’s got you.”

Sherlock blew hot air towards John indignantly as his fingers gracelessly pushed his unruly locks from his forehead, “Pots and kettles, John.” After finding a satisfactory temperature, he walked barefooted towards the screaming child and handed the bottle to John, his fingers lasting a moment too long against his flat-mate.

John didn’t seem to notice (or care), and gently placed the nipple close to the bawling mouth, and when the child sensed its presence, her mouth began to suckle, searching for the warmth of formula. John smirked back up towards Sherlock as silence filled the room, “See? That’s much better.” He glanced back down as his daughter sucked contently from the bottle in his hand.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his heels and sat on the edge of his seat studying the two beings in front of him. He watched as John’s features, hardened by his chronic heartbreaks, softened and glowed as he watched his daughter. His recently darkened eyes brightened and rounded with happiness as his shoulders relaxed into the fabric of the chair.

“All right?” He questioned Sherlock without changing his gaze.

Sherlock froze momentarily, then coughed awkwardly, “All right.”

The silent baby in John’s arms began to simmer down and still as her appetite curbed and her need for sleep took over. She squeaked as she yawned and gripped John’s little finger as she drifted off.

“I’m sorry I’m not more… _knowledgeable_ in this,” Sherlock admitted shyly, eyes never leaving the fragile form in John’s arms.

John smiled and glanced up at Sherlock’s sullen face, “You’re doing fine. I’m a doctor, remember? I’d like to think I’m a little more practiced in care than a consulting detective.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to find the humor in his statement and lowered his gaze to the floor, mumbling, “I… I know I won’t replace Mary, nor what she meant to you; but I want you to know that I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure her safety, and yours…”

John stiffened visibly in his seat and glanced back down towards his child, eyes darkening. “I know, Sherlock. I appreciate it, really. Don’t… don’t try and replace M-” his voice caught in his throat at her name, “Mary, though. I don’t need a Mary-Sherlock right now.” He lifted his gaze to Sherlock, pinning him to his place, “I need a You-Sherlock. Okay?”

Sherlock felt a strange heat flow through his body landing in his chest and flushing his neck and face, “Okay.” He looked back to John and watched as John’s heavy eyelids began to droop unconsciously as his fatigue tried to overpower his senses. “Why don’t you go back to bed, John? She seems to have settled enough for me to handle her a few more hours.”

He smiled as John seemed to startle at his voice and nodded, effectively giving up without a fight, “Yeah, okay.” He cleared his throat and added gawkily, “Do you mind if I just stay down here? It’s easier to help if I’m closer.”

Sherlock seemed taken aback but did his best not to let it show, “Er, yeah. That’s fine. Just take my bed.” He sat back in his chair as John stood and transferred the sleeping form into his arms.

John nodded towards Sherlock’s door and smiled warily. “Goodnight.”

Sherlock looked out the window at the currently rising sun and smirked, “Good morning.”

John rolled his eyes and padded quietly into Sherlock’s room, leaving the door slightly cracked allowing any noises from the sitting room to permeate into his room.

Sherlock listened with a nervous gut as John climbed into _his_ bed and waited for the inevitable snores to emit from his room. John must surely have been exhausted, as the snores began to fill his room within two minutes. Sherlock smiled at himself and the unfamiliar hotness in his chest arose again.

“Hello again, Evelyn. Are you going to play fairly this time?” He mumbled towards her, cocking an eyebrow in challenge. In retaliation, Evelyn gripped his finger and hummed in her sleep. Within moments, nearly silent snores breathed out of her lips and Sherlock shifted her position to lay straight across his chest so that he could free his left hand in order to stroke her face. “That’s not very fair, little bird.” He cooed. His stopped abruptly and rolled his eyes to himself. _I’m turning into a proper housewife_ , he thought snarkily, looking around at the nearly-spotless flat. A few moments more passed and Sherlock grinned to himself as the Watsons began to lightly snore in tandem. _Something about apples and trees_ , he thought to himself as his heart began to beat louder in his ears.

It had been a long while since Sherlock had truly felt _happy_. John, his spirit understandably bloodied yet still unbowed, was back in Baker Street. Even his mere presence caused the Victorian wallpaper to liven and the windows to allow more light into the flat. Even in the chill of autumn, the flat itself seemed warmer, more inviting, more like _home_ than it had in years. Sherlock could remember the last time he had felt content in his home, but three years of hardships and absence had long since washed away most of pleasantries, only leaving hollow memories for him to reminisce about.

Evelyn sniffed in her sleep and turned her face towards Sherlock’s chest and smiled a toothless grin. His heart beat against his ribcage as he lifted his finger and placed his lips on her petite hand that was still wrapped around it. She sighed in her sleep and gripped his finger tighter, sending a new feeling of emotion into him. He decided then, with a miniature hand gripped on his, that he loved the little child. Not in the same way that he obviously loved her father, (Sherlock had come to accept this sentiment during the phone call leading up to the Fall, but had not yet acted upon it) ( _would he ever?)_ but in a way that initiated a desire to protect and hold the little figure in his arms. He unconsciously gripped her tighter into his chest and smoothed her tufts of sandy hair with two of his still free fingers.

“I’ll get better at this, I promise,” His dark voice purred. The baby in his arms immediately decided to test the theory and began to stir and cry. Sherlock lifted her closer to his chest and stroked her face with his thumb, attempting to mimic John’s soothing voice, “No, no, no, little one. You’re alright. Shhh…” Her sobs only intensified and Sherlock began to fluster. “Oh, erm, hmm…” His long vocalizations sounded like hums and her sobs began to settle. “Oh, you like that, do you? Are you a little song bird?” He smiled, as his baritone vibrated in his throat. _Complainte de la Butte perhaps_ , he thought as the music emanated from his nostrils in hums. Slowly, but surely, Evelyn’s sobs quieted into hiccups, and Sherlock beamed with triumph.

“I didn’t know you could sing.”

Sherlock jumped at the sound and nearly jostled the baby in his arms, but he righted himself before she had a chance to complain about it.

John was leaning on the doorway of Sherlock’s room looking far more refreshed and awake than he had earlier. His smile reached from ear to ear and his disheveled sandy hair sent a shock of attraction to Sherlock’s heart as his breath caught in his throat.

“Sorry,” He laughed. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.” He padded across the floor and sat gently in his seat across from Sherlock. “You have a handsome voice, by the way.”

Sherlock could feel his cheek blush and turned to look away at the empty fireplace. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. He thought about pressing further, but before his conscious could stop him, he blurted out, “That notion must be genetic.”

John cocked his eyebrows and smirked, “Oh really? Why is that?”

Sherlock lifted his face to find John’s, “It works on you, too.”

John tilted his head to the side wordlessly asking for further explanation.

“When you used to have nightmares,” Sherlock began turning his eyes back into the empty fireplace (how was he to know if John still had nightmares?), “I played music for you, and it seemed to calm your nerves. When we were here, I’d play the violin. When we were out…” he waved his hand, “I was left to my own devices.”

John visibly blushed and stammered, “I-I didn’t normally have nightmares while we were out.”

Sherlock smiled to himself, “I know. I made sure of that.” He lifted his gaze back to John and smiled earnestly.

John flushed and looked to the ground. His ears burned as well as his pinking cheeks.

The flat was quiet for a moment before John coughed and cleared his throat, “Do you want a break? You’ve been holding her a long time.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and pursed his lips in confusion, “What time is it?”

John laughed and leaned back in his chair, “It’s a little past noon.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows touched his hairline. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

John chuckled, “I can see that!” He glanced down and nodded at the sleeping form in Sherlock’s arms. “See, you’re getting the hang of it.” His grin widened and his shoulder relaxed against the chair.

Sherlock met his gaze and then looked down as well, unable to hide the smile that crept across his features, “I suppose so.” He then jerked his head back towards John, “Aren’t you supposed to be in surgery by now?”

John sighed and leaned back into his chair, “Well, yes, but they tend to be a little lenient when… Well when your wife dies on the table…” He looked down into the empty fireplace at his side, his eyes deepening with his mood, “Sherlock, I don’t know if I can stay there any longer. I can’t go to work and wonder if Mary will be there every time my nurse is going to walk in and hand me charts. I just _can’t_ do it.” His voice cracked on the last sentence and Sherlock looked back to see dampness in John’s eyes.

“John,” he grimaced as he tried to assemble productive words in his mind. “Hold on.”

Sherlock stood, careful to not jostle Evelyn, and gently placed her in the crib John had brought from the flat he shared with Mary. They had brought it in early that morning, while Mrs. Hudson was watching her, and had placed it directly besides Sherlock’s chair (as he had been the one awake more of the time watching Evelyn). She settled on her back and garbled a little as he set her head on the soft cushion of bed.

He smiled as he lightly dragged a finger down her cheek, then turned on his heel and padded into the kitchen. John heard two crystal glasses touch the countertop, a bottle pop, and two glasses fill with a substance heavier than water.

Before he could turn around, Sherlock was back in front of him with a glass of wine held out towards him. “It’s not much, but it’ll do you some good. A single glass will take off the edge, but not allow us to become so inebriated as to not be able to care for your daughter.”

John nodded and fervently took the glass, his hand trembling. Sherlock frowned as he knew he had cured that in John already, but he deduced that the stress of everything was bringing John back into his old habits.

The two friends sat in their respective chairs and gazed into the empty fireplace as they both wondered the next appropriate thing to say. Long moments passed in comfortable silence as they both drained their glasses and Sherlock rose to place them in the sink.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispered. “For everything.”

Sherlock padded back through the kitchen and rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “Of course, John. We’ll just take this one day at a time.” He smiled down at his friend and then left to sit back on his chair opposite him.

John looked into his empty palms and sighed.

“Yeah, one day at a time.”

 

***

 

“You’re doing it again.”

Sherlock looked up at John’s familiar joking voice, “Doing what?”

“Making weird faces,” John smirked.

Sherlock glanced back at the child laying on the back and puffed out his cheeks, raised his eyebrows and watched as she attempted to mimic and laughed, “I am doing no such thing. I am enabling her to establish human facial recognition and allowing her to exercise her ability to use her facial muscles. That is much more than ‘making weird faces’.” He widened his eyes and Evelyn swatted at him and giggled. “You appreciate me facilitating your growth, don’t you?”

John rolled his eyes and turned back towards the kitchen and glanced at the new calendar on the refrigerator: November 13th. Evelyn was three months old, to the day, and Sherlock had been nothing but amazing at helping him raise her. John had gone into a dark area in his life right after Mary’s funeral, sometimes spending days without speaking, but Sherlock instead took the initiative to jump into parenting overdrive and become a master at the art of childcare.

John smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock run his long fingers of Evelyn’s belly and Evelyn’s legs kick out in retaliation as she giggled and cooed. Had someone told him four months ago that Sherlock would be doing such an amazing job at helping him raise his daughter, he probably would have laughed manically and subsequently punched them in the face just for the hell of it. However, Sherlock had become quite the father now that he had been given the chance to excel in this new and unexplored area. He had completed a study on Evelyn’s noise and crying patterns and was able to decipher exactly what she needed within the first few seconds of any crying fit. He also had created the perfect amount of time needed to warm a bottle to a satisfactory temperature and efficiently cut down on wasted cooling time. The most impressive feat however, in John’s mind that is, was his ability to care so intensely for her. In the night, Sherlock only needed to hear Evelyn shifting uncomfortably in her crib before he was wide awake and coddling her. And during the day, Sherlock nigh never left her side. Lestrade had made the occasional offer of a case, but Sherlock only left the flat in the case that they rung at least a seven or eight on the Interest Scale. Even then, he would text Mrs. Hudson the entire time they were out asking for updates and to remind her of Evelyn’s bodily schedules. It was unnerving and yet touching all at the same time.

“Your daughter is going to start babbling soon, I think.” Sherlock said softly as he poked at her miniature toes.

John felt warmth in his chest and he smiled unconsciously, “I think at this point, Sherlock, you can call her _your_ daughter, too. You’re doing a pretty brilliant job of raising her anyways.”

Sherlock stilled, and John watched his cheeks and ears flush, “Oh… Erm, alright… _Our_ daughter is going to start attempting to vocalize within the next month or so.”

John pulled out two cups from the cupboard and turned on the kettle. “Cuppa?”

Sherlock glanced back at him through the walkway, “Yes, thank you.”

John prepared the teapot and poured them both cups of Earl Grey (Sherlock’s apparent favorite John had deduced, as Sherlock would only actually finish the cup if that was in it).

He walked carefully towards his flat-mate and their daughter and placed both cups on the coffee table, gently picking up the child and bouncing her on his legs. “Are you going to start talking to us soon?” he asked playfully rubbing his nose against hers as she tittered and flapped her hands.

Sherlock turned his head as he heard a knock at the downstairs door and listened for Mrs. Hudson’s greeting.

“Hello dear! The boys are upstairs.”

Sherlock groaned as he listened to the familiar paced footsteps and swing of an umbrella climbed up the steps. As he heard Mycroft lift his hand to knock he called out, “It’s open.”

The door swung into the flat and Mycroft followed in, shutting the door after him. “Good afternoon brother. John.” He said, nodding at both parties.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” John joked as he rubbed his nose at Evelyn again. Evelyn turned her head to the new figure in the room and squealed, flapping her hands. “Ha, Mycroft! Seems she likes you.”

Mycroft, who normally had the ability to conceal all emotions and sentiments, blushed lightly in his cheeks. Not enough to actually be considered blushing, but enough to look more flushed than if he had just stepped in from the cold outside. “May I?” He asked leaning his umbrella against John’s chair and holding his hand out towards John.

John glanced back towards Sherlock then relented, “Well, yeah sure. Have at it.” He gently lifted Evelyn from his knees and placed her delicately into Mycroft’s outstretched hands. As he pulled her up to his chest, the Ice Man visibly warmed as Evelyn garbled and giggled at him.

“Well hello there, Miss Evelyn. Has Sherlock begun experimenting on you yet?”

Sherlock stiffened in his seat and narrowed his eyes, “Mycroft, you know you’re imposing, correct? How very rude.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Mycroft laid the baby in his left arm, playing at her stomach with his right hand, “Alright, little brother, children are especially sensitive to animosity.” She clutched at his finger and squeaked. “Well you are quite the little doll, aren’t you?” He asked the smiling child in his hands. He grinned back at her and then glanced up to see Sherlock and John both smirking in his direction.  He cleared his throat and deposited the child back into John’s arms incredibly professionally. “Yes, well. You two seem to be doing a fine enough job of rearing this child.”

John chuckled, “Thanks, I think.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I’m sure you didn’t just drop by to check on our daughter so is there something you needed?”

Mycroft’s smile jerked at the word “our” but he maintained his composure and moved on, “Yes actually there is a matter of business that I must attend to.” He turned to John and pulled a file from his coat. “I know these last few months have been… hard on you, John. I found an opportunity that you might like to take advantage of.”

John raised his eyebrow in defense, “Last time you handed me one of these files, you were asking me to move to Surrey. I’m not going to leave here, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded, but still held out the file, “I assure you, John, that I will no longer attempt to remove you from Baker Street. This is a position very close to home that you might find appealing.”

John narrowed his eyes and handed the still-smiling baby to Sherlock and reached for the file, opening it and reading aloud. “This is a pretty salary, Mycroft. This seems a little too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

Mycroft shrugged and picked the umbrella from its position against the chair. “No catch. I’ve had my eye on positions away from your current clinic within a specific salary-range. The hours are flexible, and the pay decent, so I think you might want to consider it. If you’re going to raise a child, at least one of you needs a steady occupation.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother and leaned into John to read the file himself. “That address is less than fifteen minutes away by foot, John. That might be an appropriate change for you. I suggest you seriously consider it.”

John looked Sherlock in the eye and nodded towards Mycroft. “Yeah, alright; I’m interested. What’s all this about, Mycroft?”

Mycroft smiled his politician smile, “Lovely. You will begin on Monday eight a.m. sharp.” He motioned towards the door, but before leaving, turned his head back to the two men and baby. “I have no ulterior motive for helping, John. Think of it as a extremely belated sympathy wish for your loss,” He then glanced to Sherlock and the baby in his harm, “and your gains. Good day.”

Without another word, the elder Holmes was heard stepping down the stairs with his all-too-measured gait and the front door shut with a small slam.

John turned to Sherlock and smirked, “Well I’ve definitely had less pleasant encounters with your brother. I think it’s hilarious how sentimental you Holmes boys are when it comes to children. It’s almost like you actually _cared_.” He teased as he popped Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock smiled at him and swatted back, “Come off it. Besides, Mycroft was just being efficient. This clinic is known for treating the less-than-fortunate. They’ve probably had a difficult time finding someone to stay who can handle the hardships they see every day.”

John grinned and retrieved the baby from Sherlock’s arms, laying her down in his lap. “Either way, I think he’s right. It’s close, it pays well, and I can make my own schedule. I don’t see a downside.”

Sherlock leaned against the couch and crossed his right knee over his left, “One day at a time, John. Things will get better, one day at a time.”

John smiled and brought his eyes to rest on Sherlock’s content form, “Yeah, I suppose so.” He played with Evelyn’s hands in his fingers as she began to drift away from the conscious world. “We’re getting there, aren’t we, little one?”

She huffed at him as her hands fell limp and he stood up and placed her gently in her crib, still stationed in the sitting area, as it had seemed that either he or Sherlock were always in there.

“So Sherlock, any brilliant plans for the day?” John asked before he turned around. He smiled as his found Sherlock’s face leaning against his hand, his breath slow and shallow, and his lips pursed in sleep. “I guess not,” he chuckled. He grabbed a blanket and wrapped Sherlock in it, the touch startling him in the process.

“I’m fine, John. I’m awake,” he protested groggily.

John found his moment and took it head on, “Yeah well, I’m tired so shut up and sit there.” He sat next to Sherlock and leaned against his shoulder, allowing the blanket to cover both of them in its spread.

Sherlock seemed initially shocked at the contact, but made no protest. Instead he lifted his arm and wrapped it gently around John’s shoulders, allowing him to lie directly on his pectoral muscles.

John unconsciously nuzzled against him and his warmth filled Sherlock through and through. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled as sentiment filled his chest with butterflies and heat, and bent forward to kiss John’s forehead before closing his eyes and placing his cheek on top of John’s head.

“Goodnight, John.”


	3. Unpayable Debts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of NSFW at the end of the chapter, and I can't say that I'm any smut novelist, but it was necessary for the plot... I swear...

“Sherlock, you can’t honestly tell me that you’ve never had a birthday party,” John complained as he strung a humble banner behind the table, pinning it to the wall with thumbtacks.

Sherlock flopped onto the couch and groaned, “What is the point? They’re so _dull_. ‘Parties’ require _friends_ and acquaintances to show up and donate money to a child only instilling a desire for material objects and distracting them from the beauty of the malleable infantile brains they still possess. Forgive me for not finding the allure in mundane sentimental theatrics.”

John rolled his eyes and turned towards the childish man on the couch, “Sherlock, I don’t think I even know when your birthday _is_.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, “I can’t imagine how little that matters.”

John indignantly placed a hand on his hip, “Because I want to know! What is it?” Silence filled the room as the obstinate form on the couch crossed his arms on his chest. “I’m waiting.”

Sherlock mumbled and John nearly fell of his step-ladder straining to hear it. “What was that?”

“It’s the sixth of January, if you _must_ know,” Sherlock raised his voice with as much dramatic flair as is possible from laying on the couch.

John snuffed in triumph and then subsequently yelped as a stray tack caught under his fingernail, “Jesus!”

Sherlock straightened in his chair and stared at him in alarm as he stuck his finger in his mouth, “You all right?”

John hummed in discomfort and smiled around his digit, “Yeah, just got myself. These bloody things are dangerous!”

Sherlock smiled wryly and leaned back against the couch, “I truly hope that Evelyn doesn’t inherit your ineptness. We’ll be in the hospital every other weekend, if so.”

He braced himself as he noticed the Union Jack pillow flying at his head, “You tosser!”

Sherlock tossed it back at him, “I can’t help it if you have the grace of a newborn giraffe.”

John laughed heartily and threw the pillow lightly at the chair to his side, “Yeah, fine. _Says_ the person who stained the carpet because he couldn’t hold a bottle to his daughter’s mouth.”

Sherlock sniffed indignantly, “Oh for God’s sakes, John. I dropped it _once_! I’ll kindly remind you that I was holding a child, a bottle, _and_ a book all at the same time.”

John leaned his hip against the wall, antagonizingly crinkling his nose, “I can’t help it if you have the multi-tasking skills of a doorknob.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then rolled them looking down at the ground where their daughter laid on a rug next to the coffee table. She had pushed herself up into a sitting position and was gripping the table in an attempt to pull herself up.

“John! John, look!” Sherlock hollered gleefully waving John over as he sat up straight and grinned.

“What’s the matter?” John questioned as he rounded the table and made his way to the couch. He caught a glimpse of the child attempting to stand and immediately kneeled on the ground a meter or so in front of her, “That’s it, Evelyn! Come on, you can do it! Come on!”

The sandy-haired, blue-eyed baby struggled and huffed as she pulled herself to the short table and onto her feet. She wobbled awkwardly and Sherlock leaned forward enough to place a large, steady hand near her back. “Well, go on,” he urged, the huge grin impossible to wipe away from his face.

She waved her hands out at her sides and took an ungainly step with her right foot, teetering in the air. Sherlock kept his hand close behind her, but not touching, as she stumbled across the meter and flopped into John’s lap. He quickly picked her up by her torso, face beaming and laughing as he kissed her cheek. “Bloody brilliant, Evelyn! You did so well! Think you can try it again?” She giggled and swatted at his face with her hands. “Sherlock, sit down over there.” He nodded to where Evelyn had just come from and Sherlock eased himself onto the ground.

“Come here, little bird. You can do it!” His sea-green eyes glowed with delight and excitement as John placed her back on her feet and she began to jerk her body clumsily towards him. She focused on her feet as she moved but right before she made it across the way, she looked up at Sherlock and grinned a gummy smile at him and fell on his lap giggling. He picked her up and eskimo-kissed her as she laughed, “You did so well, Evelyn! I’m so proud of you!” He placed her back on her feet facing John, “Go on, little one. Just once more.”

She grinned gawkily as she picked her feet up and down against the carpet and across the way back into John’s arms and she yawned. “Alright, sweetheart; I think that’s enough excitement for one day. Save a little for tomorrow.” He nuzzled his nose on her cheek and she gasped and giggled before nodding off in his embrace.

“She’s right in front of the growth curve, John.” Sherlock beamed as he spoke. “It’s actually pretty impressive that she made it before her first birthday. She’ll definitely be above average intelligence if this is the rate at which she’s developing.” He grinned up at John and his flat-mate returned the gesture.

“Well, with _you_ as a dad, how could she not be?” He blushed as the words rolled off his tongue.

Sherlock’s high cheeks stiffened and flushed as he fumbled with his fingers in his lap, “You may not be the most brilliant light, John, but as a conductor of it, you are second to none.” _That actually was supposed to come out as a compliment,_ he internally winced as he thought it. He glanced up at John’s furrowed brow as he pieced together the insult-compliment and smiled.

“That’s probably the closest you’ve ever come to paying me a compliment,” he teased as he pushed Evelyn’s ever growing locks out of her face with his weathered thumb. “Thanks.”

Sherlock nodded curtly and stood, bending over to take the sleeping child from John’s arms, allowing for him to stand. Sherlock’s tall frame seemed to tower over John’s as he leaned in closer, and kissed John’s cheek with warmed lips. “You’re welcome, John,” he whispered into his ear, nose barely tracing against his hair.

John stood immobilized as Sherlock straightened and gently walked away to place Evelyn’s form in the crib a few meters away.

The taller man took the moment away to regulate his heart rate and calm his nerves. Placing his lips on John’s skin had taken almost all of his courage, leaving his body wrecked and fragile. His heart thrummed against his ribcage and he could hear his hormone-infused pulse throb in his ears.

He turned back after a moment and smiled at John’s still body and studied him. ( _Slept well last night, Excited, Anxious, Pupils dilated.)_

He sucked in a deep breath and willed himself to resume normal behavior with a mental shake. “Err, John-” his voice was cut off by the chiming of his phone. ( _Relief_ ) He cleared the distance between him and the table in a few bounds of his long legs and gracefully lifted the phone and swiped across the surface in a singular swift motion.

_Suspicious death of business owner in alley. Wound to back of head, but no weapon. Interested? –GL_

Sherlock read the text aloud and questioned John with his eyes.

John shrugged and pulled his coat from the door, “Yeah, alright. Let’s go get Mrs. Hudson up here.”

Sherlock grinned nearly bounced into his room to dress himself.

_Yes. Need Address. –SH_

It have been nearly three weeks without a case, and although Evelyn made decent work of keeping him pre-occupied, his mind was aching for another hit of adrenaline.

By the time John had made it back up the stairs with their landlady in tow, Sherlock had pulled on his fitted black suit over the heliotrope top that John seemed to like so much. (John had once made the mistake of calling his shirt purple in front of him and Sherlock launched into a half-hour rant on the variances of color and how important each shade it as opposed to the next. John never made that mistake again.)

Sherlock felt the phone vibrate and ping in his pocket and glanced down.

_Alley near Euston and Gray’s Inn Road. –GL_

He smiled and pulled his jacket from its hanger, throwing it around him and tightly tying his scarf around his neck. Beaming, he pulled his phone back out.

_On our way. –SH_

“Do be careful, dears. I’ll keep the little one company. It’s not decent to get so excited about a murder, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson chided as she stood next to the open doorway next to John.

Sherlock gently pushed past her, slightly kissing her on the cheek in his wake, “Who cares about decency? The game is on!” He bounded down the stairs as John shrugged at Mrs. Hudson and followed soon after.

 

***

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade pulled the yellow tape up as Sherlock and John bent under and walked forward to examine the body.

“He’s got us stumped. It just looks like he had a panic attack, someone smacked him a good one and he died,” he explained as he lead them to the lifeless figure on the ground.

True to Lestrade’s description, the man, named Derrin Brown, was face flat on the ground, clothed in an expensive suit and shoes, the back of his balding head damp with crimson.

“Well?” Sherlock prodded John as they crouched over the body. “What was the cause of death?”

John shot him a glare as he recognized the _I’ve-already-solved-this-now-I’m-just-playing-with-you_ tone in Sherlock’s voice. He bent forward and sniffed the face, peeled open the eyes and examined a few key points before leaning back on his heels. “I’d wait on an autopsy to be sure, but I’m sure the cause of death was the trauma to the back of the head. The only problem is that there isn’t a pattern in the wound.” He pointed with a gloved hand at the injury and then at the pooled blood on the ground. “See? The wound is consistent with a successions of hits on the ground, but there’s no weapon and his clothes don’t bring me to think there was a struggle. There’s no grip marks on his shoulder as if he had been pushed into the ground.” He glanced over a Sherlock who was lifting the dead man’s suit and examining it the soft underbelly underneath it. “Well, what have you found?”

Sherlock smiled wryly and laid the shirt gently back on his body. “How old does this man look, John?”

John nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation, but examined his face a little further, “I don’t know, maybe early to mid-fifties?”

Sherlock’s crooked smile curled even more sinisterly, “What if I told you he was nearly a quarter of a century older than that?” He gently pulled out the man’s wallet and produced his ID. “Derrin Brown was born in nineteen-forty-two. His face looks so young because it’s been worked on… _extensively_.” He tilted the man’s mouth open to show a cracked tongue and brittle-looking teeth. “The man died with a dry mouth, something he hadn’t had a physician check up on yet since it had only just begun. Look at his shoulder; scratch marks consistent with the brick wall on the side of the alley. His pants are soaked with water- not from this alley- but from the road, see the oil and dirt in it?” His excitement boiled with every deduction. “He was disoriented, and fell through traffic. A car splashed water at him and he stumbled into the alley. Being out of sorts as he was, he dragged up against the brick wall,” Sherlock was standing now, mimicking the motions the dying man would have made, “causing the drag marks on his shoulders. His ailment caused him to loosen his tie in an attempt to enable him to breathe, but he only succeeded in vomiting profusely.” He leaned back down towards the body and pulled up his collar. “It’s _soaked_ with sweat, see? It makes perfect sense!”

Sherlock stood animatedly and begged for understanding from his fellow crime scene investigators but was only met with vacant stared and confusion.

“Oh for _God’s sakes!_ ” He moaned dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s a seventy year old man who looks twenty years his junior. He was disoriented, vomiting, had a dry mouth, and couldn’t breathe. _Please_ tell me your primitive minds can _at least_ see _that_ connection!” He shot his head towards John and his blonde companion set the wheels in his mind in motion.

He removed the gloves from his hands and placed his fingers around his chin mumbling incoherently as he thought. His eyes widened in alarm as he stepped back from the body, “You’re not saying he was infected with Botulism, are you?”

Sherlock nearly growled with enthusiasm, “Precisely, John.”

John eyed the corpse suspiciously and questioned Sherlock, “Alright, I’m following you so far, but Botulism doesn’t cause sweating or seizures. What’s that all about, then?”

“John, you _see_ , but you do not _observe_!” Sherlock grinned and knelt down to the body pulling up the shirt on his torso again, “Observe!”

John cocked an eyebrow, wary of approaching the body again and observed the pale gut. Years of pinpricks had left their mark and John huffed out a laugh in comprehension. “Brilliant, Sherlock. Bloody brilliant.”

Sherlock’s chest puffed in pride and his cheeks flushed as John’s eyes settled on his. The moment was interrupted as Lestrade snorted in impatience, “Is anyone going to explain this to me or what? Was this a murder?”

John stood to his feet and faced Lestrade, shrugging at Sherlock’s indignant personality, “He’s a diabetic, Greg. He gives himself insulin shots. Some people mistakenly think that using more insulin than necessary allows them to lose weight, however it only really puts them in danger of over-dosing. If he’s been getting Botox treatments for as long as he had been, it can be assumed he’s rather vain about his appearance and would probably risk it. An extreme overdose, perhaps caused by missing a meal and injecting too much in tandem, could cause profuse sweating and seizures. If Sherlock is correct about the Botulism caused by a Botox injection, that would explain all of his other symptoms, and in combination with the insulin overdose, would have caused his death.”

Sherlock felt a smugness that radiated through his chest; something that could only be comparable to holding Evelyn as she slept. He felt heat raise to his cheeks and wanted nothing more than to shake John profusely and enunciate exactly how brilliant and wonderful he thought John was. He stood up straight and addressed Greg with an air of seriousness.

“Lestrade, his ring is regularly removed, so I would check out the wife. See if she has any connection to giving him his insulin- he may not have knowingly injected himself so heavily- or to the clinic where he gets his treatments. I would also investigate the clinic itself, see if there is anyone there that would wish him ill. Come along, John.” He finished with a flare of his long coat as he turned and departed from the crime scene.

John smiled sheepishly at Lestrade, “See you tomorrow, Greg?”

The inspector grinned and shook his hand warmly, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, mate.”

John nodded and waved to the rest of the crew as he chased after the mysterious man quickly walking away from the alleyway.

“I’m afraid Anderson is rubbing off on them, don’t you think?” He huffed as he finally caught up to Sherlock.

The tall man turned down towards him and smiled, crinkling his eyes, “You’re doing very well on the cases, John. I’m proud of you.”

John stilled in his tracks and grabbed Sherlock’s jacket in his fist. He pressed the inside of his wrist to Sherlock’s forehead and then down to his neck, “Are you alright, Sherlock? I’m not kidding- you’re acting really odd today. Is there something going on?”

Sherlock’s eyes creased as an earnest smile painted his lips- his cupid’s bow pulling tight. He raised his hand to John’s and gave it a light squeeze. “Yes, John.” He looked directly into John’s eyes; the bright silver-blue eyes piercing John’s navy one with softness.

“I’m actually… _happy_.”

He pulled John’s hand from his neck and placed his lips to John’s thrumming wrist delicately, closing his eyes, as John stared in disbelief, mouth dropped open. He smiled again at the blonde doctor then turned to walk to the main street, arm held up to hail a cab.

John stood rooted to his spot, knees wobbling, his gut filled with butterflies, and his wrist on fire from the warmth of Sherlock’s lips.

 

***

 

Evelyn garbled and cooed as every member of the party joined together in the flat. Molly and Lestrade had walked in around half-past four, Mrs. Hudson not long after, and Mycroft waited until the sun had set to make his presence known.

The little baby lapped up every bit of attention, and even into the night, she seemed to not tire of being passed around like a hot potato through the group of adults.

“John, she has your eyes! She’s so beautiful,” Molly fussed as she rubbed on the child’s belly, causing her to emit a high-pitched squeal of enthusiasm.

Greg elbowed John sometime throughout the night smirking, “You’re gonna have to beat off the boys when she grows up, you know. Look at those eyelashes, she’ll have them swooning.”

John lightly nudged his shoulder back, “I don’t think I’ll have to do much. If Sherlock doesn’t terrorize her inevitable boyfriends enough, I’m afraid there’s not much hope for her generation.”

Greg nodded to their mutual friend on the couch who had retrieved Evelyn from Molly’s arms and was cradling her in his embrace, lulling her to sleep amid the hustle of adults still visiting in the sitting room. “What’s Sherlock like, huh? I mean around her?”

John’s eyes crinkled in an honest smile as he watched Sherlock stroke her cheek with a gentle and affectionate flitter of fingers. “Believe it or not, Greg, he’s amazing. I’ve never seen someone spoil a child with so much attention and affection. I would have bet my life against him, but he’s actually a remarkable father. You should have seen him this morning.” His smile deepened at the memory of Evelyn’s first steps. “Evelyn took her first steps today, and when she walked over to him… Jesus, Greg, I don’t think I’ve seen a human being actually _glow_ before then!” He swirled the glass of wine in his hand and took a swig. “You know, it’s actually pretty funny. After we left the scene yesterday, he told me that he was _proud_ of me. Can you _believe_ that?”

Greg snorted as he nearly spit up the mouthful of wine in his throat. He hacked for a moment then stared at John incredulously, “No, actually I don’t believe you. Is alright? Is he making amends before he goes?”

John narrowed his eyes hotly, “Don’t make jokes like that. They’re not funny. I- I don’t know what I would do if that happened. I barely made it through Mary...” He paused and glanced back to Sherlock leaning on the back of the couch with a sleeping Evelyn in his arms. “I don’t think I would have without him, Greg. I owe him so much I don’t think I’ll never be able to repay it.”

Greg shuffled in embarrassment then straightened, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, “John, love’s not about debts and compensation. It’s about support.” He nodded towards Sherlock’s downturned face, “I think you finally found it, mate. Even if in the most _unbelievable_ way.”

Before John could respond, Greg pat his shoulder and moved over to Sherlock and the sleeping baby. Sherlock smiled at him and then changed his gaze to John. John felt pinned by the intense gaze of affection, but couldn’t help smiling back.

Eventually Mrs. Hudson shooed out the meager party of guests claiming that Evelyn’s sleep would be disturbed if they were to dally any longer.

“Now get to bed, you two. She’ll probably stir in a couple of hours, so get some rest while you can!” She urged as she shut the door to their flat and retreated down the stairway.

John flopped onto the couch and kicked up his feet over the length of it, “Well, Sherlock. We have survived the first birthday. How do you feel?” He waited for an answer but after a moment of unnatural silence he looked around the flat. “Sherlock?”

He found his object of attention gazing out of the window on the far side of the room, mesmerized in the starry sky. He stood slowly and joined him at it, leaning his body a little too close against Sherlock’s. “Normally there’s a lot more light pollution than that. What a beautiful night.”

Sherlock nodded slowly and held a finger midway up the pane of glass. “Watch here.”

John followed Sherlock’s finger as he pointed, squinting as he tried to figure out what Sherlock was pointing at.

Suddenly a white blotch shot across the sky leaving a trail of light flickering behind it as it fell. John’s face raised and his mouth dropped, “Sherlock! That was a shooting star! How did you-? Wow that was amazing!”

Sherlock leaned down and whispered into John’s ear, “You’re supposed to make a wish, John.”

John looked at him and smiled as he closed his eyes trying to come up with the perfect wish. He stood still for a moment and picked it.

It was the perfect dream for the perfect shooting star. He began to open his eyes, but before he could, he felt a hand cup and lift his face as warm lips touched his. He gasped at the contact, but didn’t fall away. Instead he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and parted his lips against their companions.

Sherlock’s hand snaked around to rest at John’s nape, securing him in place, as his other hand settled at the small of his back, pushing John’s body into his. His lips parted as a sweet moment of affections that words could not express passed from one man into the other. Sherlock could taste the mixture of wine, sugar, and the essence of John in his mouth and his hips pushed into John’s of their own accord. John moaned lightly into his lips and leaned up and forward in an effort to make himself as close to Sherlock as possible, eliminating any space that may lie between them.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s unruly hair and down his neck sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine and causing gooseflesh to prickle his skin.

The taller man pulled away at last, panting, and pressed his forehead to John’s, their noses brushing slightly.

John chuckled, “Was that your wish, then?”

Sherlock leaned down and planted brief kisses, one after each word. “I- don’t- need- wishes.” He pulled away to be able to peer straight into John’s deep azure eyes. “I have you.”

John’s chest nearly exploded from the butterflies and heat that tried to escape at Sherlock’s words. He pulled Sherlock down into a rib-crushing embrace and nuzzled his face in the hollow of Sherlock’s shoulder and neck.

“You great idiot.”

Sherlock smiled against his ear and tightened his grip on John’s torso. As he opened his mouth to say something in retaliation, the two men heard a Cat Call ring from the street below. They both turned to find Lestrade and Molly stopped on the other side of the street beaming and gazing into their flat. John flipped his middle finger in the window and kissed Sherlock’s lips in defiance as he drew the curtains.

Sherlock nestled his cheek against John and purred into his ear, “So what was your wish, Doctor Watson?”

John pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s and smiled. “I can’t say.” He leaned back and caught Sherlock’s now bright green eyes, “But I can tell you it’s starting to come true.”

Sherlock pressed another kiss to John’s lips as his heart soared through his throat and into John. John’s touch sent so many emotions and hormones flowing through his body, it was like a drug-induced-high. But no high he had ever experienced had ever had such a pleasant outcome, such a pleasant partner to share it with. The endorphins running through his brain had never travelled so fast. Not even his most memorable case could compare to the rush that touching John’s lips gave him.

A light moan escaped his lips as he gripped his flat-mate’s toned shoulders, “ _John_ …”

John pulled out of the kiss in enough time to watch Sherlock blink the desire from his vision. “Bedroom?”

Sherlock smiled wryly and tugged John’s hand in the direction of his room.

John crossed the threshold of Sherlock’s bedroom door and grabbed his sleeve, forcing Sherlock to face him. He plucked at Sherlock’s buttons one by one, slowly prying the shirt from his ivory frame. He placed a warm hand directly over Sherlock’s palpitating heart and splayed his fingers our, massaging the muscles.

Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and tossed it across the room, and it landed gracefully on a chair opposite him. He placed his fingertips at the bottom of John’s jumper and lifted deliberately as John lifted his arms in compliance. As the fabric came off, Sherlock rubbed his large hands across John’s pectorals, his fingertips finding his bullet wound quickly. He squinted in the dark as he bent forward to examine it with his fingertips, and subsequently with his tongue. John let out a gasp and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, gripping sturdily but not enough to hurt.

As Sherlock continued to travel down his chest with his tongue, his fingers deftly maneuvered around John’s belt, button, and zip and John was left only wearing his pants in a matter of seconds.

“Well that’s not entirely- _oh fuck_!” He moaned as Sherlock’s lips hovered and pressed against his nipple. His arousal wasn’t attempting to hide in his pants and only twitched with anticipation as Sherlock travelled around his body with curious fingers.

John lowered his hands and began to remove Sherlock’s trousers with admittedly less finesse, to expose Sherlock’s free arousal covered in silk.

“Is everything you _own_ silk, Sherlock?” He scoffed.

Sherlock pressed against his ear and growled, the vibrations filling his chest and John’s, “If you don’t like it, I suggest you get rid of it.”

John’s hips bucked slightly as he forcefully pushed Sherlock onto the bed, straddling him against it. His doctor’s hands plucked at the waistband and pulled them away from Sherlock’s hips exposing him completely to John. Sherlock’s fingers weren’t far behind as John’s pants hit his ankles before he could feel Sherlock’s touch.

Sherlock pulled himself entirely onto the bed, lying out flat as John hurriedly climbed over him, anticipation getting the better of him. His hips dug into Sherlock’s and the dark-haired man let out a baritone groan that filled the room.

“John!”

He heard his namesake and decided to take complete control of the situation, shifting his knees farther down the bed. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s and in turn compressed their bodies flat against each other. Sherlock moaned into John’s lips and he couldn’t help but smile at seeing Sherlock laid out bare for him to experiment with. He pressed kisses down Sherlock’s body, following the jugular vein ( _Make a note: Sherlock has a thing for his neck_ ), over his heart, straight down his stomach and onto his femoral artery.

He kissed the top of Sherlock’s sex and his hips bucked up at him and a deep groan filled the room in response. He placed his lips entirely over him and cupped him with his tongue.

“ _John_!”

John pushed Sherlock further into his mouth, every inch producing a deeper sigh from the man on the bed.

Sherlock’s hands entertwined in his short hair, splaying across his scalp as he bobbed on him.

“Oh, John... Please… More…”

Ever one to please, John placed one hand on Sherlock’s hip, stilling him, and the other at the base of his shaft, pumping it as his mouth sucked at the tip. That was obciously the correct thing to do as Sherlock emitted a whimper that travelled straight to John’s crotch.

“John, I’m… I…”

John braced himself as Sherlock bucked into his mouth with a force that nearly caused him to choke. Sherlock cried out John’s name and John swallowed several times as he tasted Sherlock’s saline and salt slide down his throat. The visage of anguish was still present on Sherlock’s face as his hands began to press down John’s chest. John released Sherlock’s softening arousal from his mouth and pressed towards Sherlock, allowing him to grip John with enough force for him to cry out in pleasure, “Sherlock! Fuck!”

His musician’s hands made short work of bringing John to the edge, and soon enough John was panting in tandem with Sherlock, “Sherlock, Jesus! I’m about to- God!”

Sherlock continued to pump softly as John expended his pleasure on his hands. He rode through his orgasm in waves, eventually collapsing down on Sherlock’s trembling frame in exhaustion.

John smiled through his puffs, “Sherlock, you all right?”

Sherlock glanced down and nodded gently, beaming. John frowned as his eyebrows furrowed, “Sherlock, you’re trembling.” He traced Sherlock’s lips and jaw with his thumb as he pulled the cover they had successfully pushed off the bed in their endeavors over them. He hugged Sherlock close to him and rubbed on his chest. “Was… was that your first time, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s face flashed fear for a moment then resumed its calm façade. “Does that question really require an answer?”

John chuckled, “I think you just gave me one.” He lifted his hand to cup Sherlock’s face and brought him down to kiss his lips.

“John?”

“Hmm?” John hummed as he placed his cheek over Sherlock’s beating heart.

“John, are you prepared to go into this with me?” He questioned carefully, nerves fighting him all the way. “I am a ridiculous man, John. It will be hard some days to deal with me. I will get bored and I will lash out. I need to know you’ll be alright with that. I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.”

John looked up to find Sherlock examining him with a stern gaze. He propped himself up on his elbows and brought his face close enough to Sherlock’s that Sherlock had to lay his head back on the pillow to focus on him.

“Sherlock, you’ve hurt me, yes. And I’m sure I’ve done my fair share of returning the favor. But you need to know: you have saved me in more ways than I thought possible. I wouldn’t be here without you, but now that I have you, I refuse to let you go.” In order to prove his point, he leaned back down and gripped Sherlock in an unyielding embrace that forced the breath out of both of them.

Sherlock squeezed his arms around John and nestled his nose into John’s hair. “I love you, John.”

John smiled and murmured back against his chest, “And I love you, Sherlock. I always have and I always will.”

Sherlock listened as John’s breathing slowed and began to shallow, and smiled up at the blank ceiling. He had lived his entire life swearing that sentiment and love were the most egregious of sins. But now, he saw every error of his way and clutched John firmly against him.

Sherlock had found love.

Sherlock had found a family.

Sherlock Holmes was the happiest he had ever been in his entire existence.

His wish on the shooting star had been his family’s happiness.

Turns out, John had wished that, too.


	4. Love, Blood, and Other Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little bit of playing around with time in this chapter, but it all works for the sake of plot. <3 Thanks for reading!

John nearly jumped in astonishment to find Sherlock Holmes still sleeping against his chest when he woke up. Apparently throughout the night, their positions had shifted and John found himself looking down to an ebony mop of curls, with one ivory arm pressed against his side and the other stretched across his chest as if to stake a claim of territory. The thought sent heat into his chest and he leaned down to press a delicate kiss to Sherlock’s head, lightly brushing the curls from in front of his face.

Sherlock stirred and sucked in consciousness with a deep inhalation, his eyebrows reaching his hairline as he blinked awake.

“Good morning.” John whispered, pressing another tender peck to his lover’s ( _that’s an odd term for Sherlock_ ) head.

Sherlock lifted his face to study John’s and smiled sleepily. His voice was still rough with sleep, but the baritone vibrated through both his body and John’s, “Good morning.”

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and traced the prominent cheekbone with his thumb, “Did you sleep well?”

In response, he nuzzled against John’s pectorals and hugged him tighter against his torso, like a child refusing to let free a blanket, “Very.” He looked back up and grinned, “You’re quite the furnace.”

John flushed and a crooked smile painted his lips, “Yeah- well… Erm…”

Sherlock glanced back up to John and pressed a gentle kiss to his skin, gooseflesh rising as he did so, “I like it.”

John inhaled happily, his chest filling with butterflies that had long stayed dormant since his teenage years. He ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, gently twisting the curls in his fingers. “You’re beautiful when you wake up, you know.”

Sherlock smirked, “Pots and kettles, love.” Sherlock hadn’t noticed the pet name that often sprung from his lips before, but as he said it then, he felt it heavy with the entirety of its meaning.

John laughed, but it was cut short by Evelyn’s familiar cry as she woke up.

Sherlock rolled to his side, pulled his house coat from the floor and wrapped it firmly around himself, leaving nothing underneath to the imagination, “Go ahead and shower; I’ll take care of her.” He bent forward and kissed John’s lips before padding out into the sitting area.

John lay back flat in the bed, pressing a hand to the cooling skin that Sherlock’s presence had warmed. He could feel the emotions bubbling in his chest and could almost feel his fingertips painting his chest with stardust from how luminescent he felt. He heard the sink run as Sherlock washed his hands and he bent to the ground to pick up his pants, shimmying into them as graceful as is possible and laid back on the bed committing the last night’s events to memory.

He rubbed his palms into his eyes, willing himself to retreat from the bed before his heart sank as Sherlock’s throaty cry filled the flat, “Oh my God, Evelyn!”

“Oh God,” John gasped as he jumped to his feet, clumsily dashing into the sitting area. His eyes fell upon Sherlock scooping up their daughter, blood covering her face. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock was bouncing her in his arms, worry lines running deep on his face, “I don’t know, John! She’s _bleeding_!” His voice cracked as he looked at John with pleading eyes.

John rushed to his side, “Here, let me see her.” Sherlock shifted to allow John to hold her on his hip, so he placed his fingers on her chin and lifted up, “Darling, let me see.” She tilted her head so that John could inspect her bleeding nostrils. He walked into the kitchen and nimbly seized a clean flannel from the cupboard and held it to her nose, pressing his forefinger and thumb lightly against her. “You’re all right, love. It’s just a nosebleed. Don’t cry.” He pressed his lips to her damp cheek and held her for a few moments longer as the bleeding and tears subsided. “See? You’re all right, Evelyn.”

He glanced at Sherlock who stood frozen in his place, eyes wide and hair splayed about. John used the still-clean part of the flannel to wipe her face as he spoke, “Sherlock, toddlers get nosebleeds sometimes. She was probably rubbing her nose too hard throughout the night; it’s nothing traumatic.” He smiled as he walked back to Sherlock’s flabbergasted form. “Take her right quick, I need a new flannel.” Sherlock plucked her from John’s arms and positioned her on his hip as he tilted her head up, looking at the drying blood in her nostrils.

“Are you sure? That’s never happened before,” Sherlock fussed as he wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

John rolled his eyes as he dampened another flannel at the sink, “Sherlock, I’m a _doctor_ , remember? I work with children every day.” He wrung it out and travelled back to Sherlock and Evelyn, gently wiping at her face with it. “It’s completely expected, and I’m surprised this is her first one, honestly.”

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake and kissed Evelyn’s temple as John finished cleaning her up, brushing her feathery hair back with his fingertips, “All right, little one?” She looked him straight in the eye and nodded in comprehension. She mumbled something under her breath and then threw herself against Sherlock’s frame again.

He raised his eyebrows at her and smiled, “Oh really? Did you decide that you wanted to speak?” She smiled and rubbed her face in the crook of his neck. “Well go on then, say something!” He urged smiling at her as he bounced her up on his hip. He lifted his finger towards John and smiled at him affectionately, “Who’s that?”

John smiled at her and bent forward a little, bringing himself to eye level with her, “You can do it, baby. What’s my name?”

She shied into Sherlock’s neck and giggled, bunching Sherlock’s housecoat in her little fists.

Sherlock chuckled and lifted her chin with his long fingertips, “You’re not getting off that easy, little bird. Who is that?” He glanced over at John while the sandy-haired doctor gazed into a younger pair of his eyes as Evelyn faced him.

John’s smile deepened as he urged her to speak, “What’s my name, Evelyn?”

She looked back and forth between the two men and giggled before whispering a single syllable.

Her bright voice made its debut, filling the room with a quiet word, “Love!”

Both John and Sherlock were taken aback. John had been expecting some infantile variation of “Dad” and Sherlock had expected her to just giggle and shy away. Neither party expected such a heavy expression to escape her lips as her first word.

“What was that?” Sherlock questioned as he switched her around on his narrow hips.

She grinned, exposing a few of her new teeth, “Love! Love, love, love, love!” She flapped her arms and jostling around on Sherlock’s hip, disheveling his housecoat, obviously proud of her new found talent.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John who returned the gesture, “I hadn’t realized I called you that so often.” He grinned cheekily as Evelyn tugged gently at the back of his long, ebony curls.

John smiled and closed the distance between them, kissing him softly on the lips, “You’ve called me worse.”

“As have you, love.” A gravelly laugh emitted from Sherlock’s throat and Evelyn placed her hand on his Adam’s apple to sense the vibrations.

“Love,” she said lightly, smiling.

Sherlock hummed a sequence of difference tones, allowing for his daughter to feel the laryngeal prominence bob and tremble, smiling as she giggled and examined his throat.

“Perhaps we have a future scientist on our hands, John.” Sherlock hummed, still staring at their daughter.

John laughed to himself, “Maybe so! She’s definitely got your curiosity.” Sherlock’s piercing blue eyes shot him a glance as he flushed from the compliment.

Evelyn looked up to his face again and placed her hand on his lips, “Love.”

Sherlock nodded and kissed her fingers, “Love.”

John sighed happily and Evelyn turned to look at her father. He was in close enough proximity, that she could reach out and place one hand on his lips, repeating, “Love.”

John placed one hand on top of hers, kissing her fingers, and one onto Sherlock’s cheek as the tall detective leaned into it like a cat into a petting hand.

Their eyes met and for a moment, only a single sentiment existed in 221B Baker Street:

 

Love.

 

***

 

“Sometimes, I bloody well hate you, Sherlock.”

John shivered violently in the frigid air as he leaned back on a stack of frozen boxes of some food item he didn’t care to establish.

Sherlock beat on the metal door again- knowing it would be fruitless for the moment- then resumed his pacing across the ice-covered floor.

He glared at the wall opposite him and dramatically waved his hands in dismissal, “How was _I_ supposed to know that he had an identical twin? Our cases don’t normally rival those kinds of contemptible soap operas.”

John huffed indignantly, “Our life _is_ a soap opera.”

Sherlock paced over to John and pulled him to his feet, rubbing on his shoulders. “You need to stay moving, John. Get up.”

John groggily agreed and leaned against the taller figure. Sherlock opened his overcoat and wrapped John to him as much as the fabric would allow. He pressed hard up and down on John’s back willing him to warm up.

“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John mumbled into Sherlock’s coat collar. “At least I will be as soon as we get out of this bloody mess.”

Sherlock grinned in spite of himself, “You know, for a doctor, you give yourself absolutely terrible advice.”

John continued to shiver, and slowly acknowledged Sherlock’s jest, “Yeah… Guess so…”

John laughed inwardly as his thoughts fell upon his choice of attire for the night. Having it be mid-spring, he hadn’t worn more than a thin jumper and a jacket to top his jeans. Had he known that he would have to battle an arctic freeze in the middle of the night, he might have reconsidered the dress code.

Sherlock pushed against his forehead with his chin, persuading him to look up, “Come now, John. We’ll be out of here soon. I need you to stay with me till then, though.”

The smaller man wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso underneath his overcoat, arms tremblingly terribly as hypothermia began to set in, “How long have we been in here?”

Sherlock pulled his arm away from John for a moment to turn his watch towards his face, “About an hour. The Yard should be here any minute. That is, as long as they have someone with an IQ higher than that insufferable waste-of-a-brain-Anderson’s following us. It’s a modern-day miracle that the Yard chooses to keep him employed.”

The joke missed John completely as he pushed farther into Sherlock’s chest, perhaps too much like his knees were giving out on him for Sherlock to be comfortable with it. “John, keep talking to me. Stay awake. Tell me about Evelyn.”

John took a deep breath and blinked slowly against Sherlock’s scarf, “You know everything that I do.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ceiling, “That’s not the point, John, and you know it. I want you to stay conscious; speaking continuously will help that marginally.”

John shrugged slightly, “What do you want me to talk about?” His voice became more of a shaky whisper with each syllable.

Sherlock rubbed at John with both arms and blew hot air onto John’s neck near the collar of his jacket, “Anything, John. Anything at all. What’s her favorite color? What does her voice sounds like? Please, John, anything will do.”

John pressed his chilled forehead into Sherlock’s scarf inhaling his signature scent of danger and expensive shampoo. His eyelids drooped and his breathing slowed to once every six seconds as Sherlock waited for him to begin talking. The taller man shook his companion, “John! Tell me about Evelyn. I need to know you remember her.”

John huffed indignantly into his scarf as his brow furrowed, “Of course I remember her, Sherlock. I’m cold, not insane.”

Sherlock smiled, “Maybe I’m the one going insane. Remind me what she looks like. What does she do?”

John gripped into the fabric at the back of Sherlock’s suit jacket with both fists and inhaled slowly and deeply. Every word was separated and deliberate and almost incomprehensible as he stuttered liberally as he shivered.

“Her name is Evelyn Mary Watson. Her name means ‘little bird’ and you came up with it. She was born on August thirteenth. She’ll be four this autumn. She has sapphire-blue eyes that sparkle when she smiles. She has puffed cheeks like I did as a kid and a heart shaped chin. Her hair is the same color as mine, but it curls like her mother’s did. It’s soft and silky and she likes to have it brushed and braided. Her favorite color is green- like the trees in spring. She doesn’t like pink or yellow and says there aren’t such things as “boy colors” and “girl colors”. She gets mad any time I say it.” John’s chest burned as the cold air kept filling his lungs, but he kept talking to keep Sherlock happy.

“She likes books. She can’t read yet, but she’s trying. She likes the pictures in fairy tales and traces words on the pages with her fingers. She likes the feel of the paper in her hands. She takes books to bed instead of toys, since she knows you’ll read to her if you see them.” Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in disbelief. He had never put the two events together and was slightly impressed that their daughter had deduced and played his behavior so efficiently. ( _Good girl, Evelyn!_ ) Sherlock then frowned as he realized John was no longer shivering, meaning his body had stopped trying to keep him alive and was on the downward slope. “Her favorite story is _The Hobbit_. It’s the first one you read to her and she says that the main character reminds her of me. I think it’s because he’s short and stubborn.”

He laughed a bit at his own self-depreciating joke, but the cold air caused his lungs to cough against the burn. As the minutes dragged on, his grip on Sherlock’s suit loosened and the fabric began to fall back into place, much to the taller man’s chagrin. His breath began to slow even more disconcertingly as he kept talking, every sentence taking longer to finish than the one prior, “She loves… to sing… She sings herself to sleep when… she’s tired and you’re not there… to read to her… She sings along when you… play the violin and… she hums when she eats things she likes… Her favorite song… is… Sher-mph…”

John’s eyelids shut indefinitely as his head lolled to the side and his body slumped forward into Sherlock’s grasp.

“John!”

Sherlock gripped the unconscious man as his knees buckled and dragged him to the metal door. _They should be here by now!_ He thought, reaching for his watch again.

He knelt down, placing John’s frozen form in his lap as he kicked the door in an S.O.S. pattern again and again, pausing in between messages to listen for a response.

“Dammit, Lestrade!” He called out to the otherwise empty room. He looked down at John’s face and a chill unrelated to the cold shot down his spine. John’s skin had long lost all natural color, turning him almost translucently pale; his slightly parted lips had stopped their motion and had already turned a sickly shade of blue. He pulled John’s dead weight completely on his lap and shrugged off his over coat, wrapping it around his lover- the fabric almost completely encasing his smaller frame.

“Come on, John, don’t do this to me. Come back. Evelyn needs you!” He stammered, teeth chattering as he pressed his lips to John’s frozen blue ones. He lingered to calculate the rate of his breathing not at all liking the results. He bent a little farther forward and placed his mouth to the crook under John’s square jaw, searching for a pulse full of frozen blood.

_Th-thump._

_Th-thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes began to fall of their own accord, and he whispered against John’s neck,   
“I… love… you…”

The last thing he remembered experiencing before his body slumped forward onto John’s chest was a sudden rush of tropical wind surrounding him.

 

***

 

 

“Dad!”

 

 

 

 

“Daaaaaaaad!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Dad, wake up!”

 

Sherlock inhaled deeply as consciousness washed over him in a wave of heat and light. He peeled his eyes opened and looked around, the scent of alcohol and medicine filling his lungs.

“Dad!”

He lifted his head a little to find his daughter sitting in Mrs. Hudson’s lap in a chair next to the bed he was lying in. She was gripping his arm near to the point of bruising and her face was stained with tears. Sherlock slowly raised his large hand to her cheek and opened his mouth, his jaws sore from shivering; a gravelly voice whispered from his throat, “Evelyn, I’m right here, love. I’m all right.”

“ _Dad_!” She cried as she leapt out of Mrs. Hudson’s lap and lunged for his neck with both arms. She landed with an awkward thud and she curled up against his chest, arms tugging at his neck. The blow nearly knocked the wind of him, but he steadied himself enough to breathe correctly.

He wrapped his left arm around her torso, pulling her closer to him and used his right hand to brush her sandy curls away from her tear-filled eyes, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “Shhh, little bird. I’m all right. Everything’s okay- don’t cry,” he mumbled as he rubbed his nose against her.

“Daddy won’t wake up!” She sobbed into his scrub shirt, fists clenching in the fabric. He flushed face burned against Sherlock’s chest and he gripped her tighter to him.

“Dear, he’s talking to you right now. He’s fine,” Mrs. Hudson cooed as she rubbed at the child’s back.

Sherlock’s heart dropped as he looked at his landlady and his panic echoed in his baritone voice, “No, Mrs. Hudson; she means John. Where is he? Is he all right?”

Mrs. Hudson’s hands flew to her face as she stood from her chair, “John’s right next to you, dear. She’s right, though; he hasn’t woken up yet.”

He turned slowly to his side to find another hospital bed a couple of meters away in the same room; a short tuft of sandy hair being the only thing Sherlock could see to identify the patient lying there. He sat up delicately on his hospital bed, and sat his daughter on his lap and he regained his bearings on balance.

“Hop up, love. Let’s go check on Daddy,” He said soothingly as he gently picked her up from his lap and placed her farther down the bed, allowing himself to move freely.

He found himself ( _thankfully_ ) not connected to any IVs or catheters ( _he had obviously not been out that long_ ) and gracelessly swung his long legs to the side of the short bed after lowering the bars. He looked down at his attire: scrub shirt and a matching set of trousers. Someone he knew had obviously requested it and he was incredibly grateful. He stilled for a moment as his equilibrium returned to him, then he cautiously placed his feet on the ground, applying pressure slowly as he tested his ability to hold himself. When he was satisfied with his balance, he bent back and picked Evelyn from the bed and held her on his hip, slowly walking to the other bed. She wrapped herself around his chest like a primate holding onto its mother, and stuck her miniature thumb into her mouth out of nerves. The hand not being sucked on plucked at Sherlock’s curls: a nervous habit she had gradually developed as Sherlock was always there to comfort her nearly any time she had been upset.

He picked her up by her torso and placed her gently on the side of John’s bed and studied his flat-mate’s face. Most of the color had returned to his skin; his normally tanner skin still a little paler than usual, but not unhealthy-looking. His lips were still parted as he inhaled through them, at a rate that Sherlock found most agreeable. The worry lines still ran deep in his skin, but the calming affect that sleep had softened them a bit. He placed his hand gently on John’s forehead and felt the heat radiating from his skin.

Evelyn tugged on her father’s shirt causing him to glance down. “Is it like Sleeping Beauty, Dad?”

His brow furrowed as he smiled at her, “Well, little lark, I’m not sure. But any good hypothesis deserves an experiment, don’t you think?”

She smiled and nodded enthusiastically, hugging down on John’s chest.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John’s expecting to have to explain to Evelyn how fairy tales differ from reality, but as his kissed his lover’s lips, John’s body came back into animation slowly but surely.

“Daddy!” Evelyn cried as she wrapped her arms around John’s neck and she kissed his cheek.

John winced at the impact, his cognizance still taking root, but wrapped his arms around her nonetheless, “Hey there, baby. You’re okay. Daddy’s got you. You’re safe.”

Sherlock beamed at the sight of reanimation in John’s features, raking John’s short hair with his fingers, “I think she’s a tad more concerned about you, love.”

John tilted his gaze towards Sherlock and smiled weakly at the sound of his voice, “Hey, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned back and opened his mouth to speak just as the Detective Inspector walked into the hospital room, “Morning, mates! How does it feel to be amongst the living again?”

Evelyn squealed and waved, “Hi Uncle Greg!”

The graying man waved back at the little girl, “Hey there sweetheart! Are you taking care of your dads for me?”

She clutched tighter across John’s chest and nodded enthusiastically.

John smirked at the detective, “Hey, Greg. It took you long enough to find us! What the hell kept you?”

Lestrade rolled back on his heels as he pulled out his phone, “Sherlock texted us the situation after we had finished interviewing the suspect, but we didn’t have a chance to respond as he sprung his twin on us last minute. I really am sorry, John. Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded at him and the gazed back down to John, “Give me another interesting case and we’ll call it even.”

The almost forgotten Mrs. Hudson chimed in in opposition, “Absolutely not, Sherlock! You don’t need to go on any more cases until you and John recuperate! Besides, Evelyn needs you at home!”

Sherlock shot her a glare of defiance and leaned down towards Evelyn, giving her a stern look, “Evelyn, do you think Daddy and I spend too much time on our cases?”

She laughed and retracted her arms from around John and throwing them onto Sherlock, “No! You won’t have to leave me at home anymore soon. I’m gonna grow up big and strong and chase down bad guys with you!”

The room filled with immense laughter at the little girl’s demand, and Sherlock leaned down to kiss her cheek, “Maybe one day, love.”

Sherlock leaned farther down and kissed John lightly on the lips, “Are you ready to go home, John?”

John’s eyebrows reached his hairline in anticipation as he placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, “Oh God, yes.”

Sherlock buzzed the nurse and set off filling out the appropriate paperwork as John gathered himself and prepared himself to leave.

Lestrade stayed around to fill in John with a little more information about the case, knowing it would make its way to Sherlock and then departed, leaving the family of 221B Baker Street in the hospital room.

John picked Evelyn up onto his hip and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, thanking her for bringing the little girl all the way to the hospital, and for staying.

Sherlock eventually found his way back into the room after changing, smiled at his little family and asked aloud, “Ready?”

John looked down at Evelyn and kissed her cheek,

“Let’s go home.”


	5. The Calm Before The Storm

Sherlock sighed, still sore from the havoc the intense shivering had wracked on his body, and he leaned back against John’s sternum, nuzzling his mop-top under the squared chin. John crooked his neck to place his lips on the curled locks and rested his cheek against him, positioning his back more comfortably against the arm of the couch.

“Is she asleep?” He whispered, the wind of his voice causing the strands of hair to dance in result.

Sherlock tilted his chin down to inspect the child resting against his chest, and rubbed his thumb against her cheek gently. She moaned softly in sleep and burrowed her face farther into his sleep-shirt. He glanced a little farther down to find her ankles involuntarily rubbing together, almost like a cricket playing its sad lullaby: a tell-tale sign she had lost consciousness.

He hummed in affirmation as he patted lovingly at her back. He motioned to get up to take her to bed, but John wrapped his arms around his shoulders holding him in place.

“Let her be. I wanted to talk to you anyways,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s ear, pressing his now healthy pink lips against his mastoid process.

Sherlock groaned sinfully in response and turned his head, mindful of the being in his lap, and kissed John fully. Over two years had passed since their first, and yet Sherlock’s mind still found new things to learn every time their lips touched. He had initially been afraid of becoming complacent with John’s body as he did with most other things, but instead, John had only kept surprising him every day with new quirks and delightful notions. For example, John had developed a habit similar to his daughter’s where he would stroke the back of Sherlock’s hair as he fell asleep, and the taller man could time the exact moment he would lose consciousness by the rate of his fingers. He had also discovered rather early on that John had a fixation for caresses and kisses around his neck and behind his ears ( _rather intimate places saved only for me_ , Sherlock thought).

The detective opened his eyes, and the bright cerulean orbs gleamed with affection as they landed on John’s.

John gulped and laughed nervously, “Christ, Sherlock. Your eyes…” His eyes bounced back and forth, studying Sherlock’s before he leaned forward to place his lips against the Cupid’s bow again.

Sherlock smiled against John’s flushed skin, kissing gently between words, “I’ve been told repeatedly… by a credible source… that they are… my most… redeeming feature.”

John hugged his chest tighter towards him and rested his hand over Sherlock’s sternum, “Whoever said that has obviously never seen your heart.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed his nose as John rested his cheek onto his bony shoulder. His baritone purr reverberated through both of their bodies, “On the contrary, he’s the only one who ever has.” He squeezed John’s hand over his heart and beamed pleasure as he hummed in contentment.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

John shifted a bit, hugging Sherlock a little tighter to his chest, “Thank you.” He paused as he collected his thoughts, “We both know you saved my life yesterday.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back against his flat-mate’s, “Think nothing of it, John. It’s basic survival instincts to keep hypothermia victims conscious for as long as possible. You would have done the same for me.”

“Be that as it may,” John huffed, “I still appreciate it. You always make sure I’m okay. I just… wanted to thank you.”

Sherlock purred against his chest, “You’re welcome, John.”

A moment of silence hovered in the flat, the only thing breaking it was the soothing rhythm of Evelyn’s breathing. Sherlock pet her hair, flattening the curled locks against her head as she stirred and mumbled in her sleep. Her rubbing ankles had finally subdued, sending her into her deepest slumber.

John stirred underneath Sherlock’s shoulders and whispered against his pale skin, “Sherlock, how do you feel about marriage?”

The question obviously took the detective by surprise and he rotated around, the sleeping child still leaning against his torso. “John, are you proposing to me?”

John flushed at Sherlock’s frankness and shied his eyes away from Sherlock’s, “Not if you don’t want me to… I mean- you don’t… Oh, bollocks! Forget it.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows made parenthesis around his questioning eyes as he leaned farther away in an attempt to examine John’s face, “John, do you want to marry me?”

John nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation, “I mean, the thought has occurred to me. I was just wondering… you know? How do you feel about it?”

Sherlock pondered silently to himself, steepling his fingers under his chin as John squirmed uncomfortably.

“Marriage is a socially constructed contract that binds two people to each other exclusively both intimately and sexually. It is a piece of paper that the government bestows on couples regardless of the actual connection the contract is based on. I have solved _hundreds_ of distressed spouse cases, and I know that marriage in itself does not cause a relationship to build or grow if there is not already an established foundation. It is also the only socially acceptable way to bear legitimate children, which as you see,” he waved a hand towards Evelyn’s lightly snoring form, “we have already violated.”

John smiled at Sherlock’s bluntness and rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s collarbone, “So, does that mean you’re not a fan?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and resumed his deducing position.

“John, I think it would be illogical of you to assume that we do not care for each other deeply considering the fact we have been in a committed relationship for two years, eight months, and six days; every night of which, you and I have shared the same bed. With your undying compulsion for comfort and cleanliness, you have turned this flat into a home for ourselves and our daughter that you have allowed me to raise with you, even though my history should show that I would have never been an acceptable parent. You have watched me die for you,” John winced at the memory, “and I have watched you live for me. I have put you in harm’s way almost every day since I have met you.” His hands waved in the air as he enumerated the offenses, “You’ve been beaten, burned, shot at, drugged,” Sherlock leaned back a little, “sorry about that last one- well mostly- all because of me. I insult you, dismiss you, and blatantly disregard your wishes on a daily basis. I am a drug addict, a self-proclaimed sociopath, and there should be no reason that you should want to spend even the next few moments in my presence.”

John’s heart sank as he unconsciously recoiled from Sherlock’s words.

“John, if you still desire my company even in the wake of everything I have just listed,” Sherlock turned and smiled at John’s sullen face, “then I would have no sound cause to deny you.”

John’s breath caught in his throat and eyes crinkled in a beaming grin as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and chest. Sherlock gripped back with just as much urgency and smirked, “I am _not_ changing my name, though.” He looked up at John’s smiling face, “Sherlock Watson sounds absolutely dreadful.”

John gripped him tighter as his cheek dampened against Sherlock’s neck, “It really does.”

Sherlock grinned mockingly, “Now, John Holmes on the other hand…”

John swatted him lightly on the chest, not moving his face into Sherlock’s line of vision, “Don’t even think about it.”

 

***

 

“Really, John. Is this completely necessary?”

Sherlock motioned to his wedding attire and then waved towards the room filled with friends and family members, including a few aunts and uncles of John’s that Sherlock had never heard of before, and Sherlock’s own parents. His mother had cried when she saw him earlier that day, staining his suit with tears, blubbering on about how lucky he was to have found John. Sherlock refused to say that she was wrong, for she wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination, but gently pushed her away claiming a need to fix Evelyn’s dress before the reception.

John eyed him up and down grinning deeply, “Bloody hell, Sherlock. Your legs go on for days in that suit.”

Sherlock glanced down and waved his hands in exasperation, “I _know_! That’s why I have my suits _tailored_! If you wanted to not seem so miniscule by comparison, you might want to give it a go!”

John snickered and walked towards Sherlock to fix his collar, “Why are you so nervous? We’ve talked about this. It’s just a few words, a couple of signatures, and a little dance. This is not the most exciting thing you’ve ever done by far.”

Sherlock huffed at him and glanced back toward the filling room. “But why all the pomp and circumstance? I don’t need a hundred witnesses to see us kiss to remind myself that I love you. Most of these people don’t even know us! Oh, but I know them! Your Aunt Matilda is cheating on her husband with his brother, and what’s more is he _knows_! He’s been flirting with your old schoolmate Jennifer _all day long_. Your cousin Mark? He’s currently crashing down from an opiate high, look at how he’s trembling and scratching at his skin. I suggest he won’t last the reception without having to shoot up. Look at your old military mate- he’s flirting with everything here that has a heartbeat even though he has a girlfriend that he decided not to bring along to this despicable event. At least _Harry_ is acting acceptably. She hasn’t touched a drink in two months straight, and although I can see her glancing at them, she’s making the conscious effort to-”

Sherlock’s rant was cut short by John’s lips as he pulled himself down to his level. His palpitating heart calmed as his lips spoke without words against John’s and eventually John pulled away and smiled.

“Now that’s quite enough.” He said patting Sherlock’s shoulder pads down. “Let’s prepare ourselves for battle, shall we?”

He smiled as his pecked Sherlock’s lips again and turned the corner into the room, leaving Sherlock flushed as he stood alone in the hallway.

He raised his fingertips to his lips and sighed, “Into battle, then.”

 

***

 

“I, John Hamish Watson, take you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be my lawfully wedded husband, my constant friend, my faithful partner and my love from this day forward.”

John took Sherlock’s left hand in his, depositing a silver ring on his third finger with the deft precision of a doctor’s practiced hands.

“In the presence of our family and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, and in joy as well as in sorrow. I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, and to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.”

John’s flushed cheeks beamed as he spoke the truest words he had ever uttered. He turned a bright shade of red as he heard an unnaturally polished Greg Lestrade whisper, “His name’s _William_?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he gripped John’s hands in front of him.

He took an incredibly deep breath and steadied himself, feeling every eye boring holes into his suit as he stood in silence, barely breathing from nerves. He blinked profusely trying to remember the words he had prepared for the moment before the vicar coughed gently prodding Sherlock to begin his speech.

“Oh, um, right.”

He gazed into John’s deep navy eyes as they smiled back at him encouragingly, “It’s okay.”

“I,” he finally began, his voice quivering uncharacteristically as he spoke, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be my lawfully wedded husband, my constant- and at many times only- friend, my faithful partner and my love from this day forward.” His voice cracked as emotion filled his throat and his trembling fingers nearly dropped the silver ring onto the floor as he struggled slightly to slide it onto John’s finger.

“In the presence of our family and friends, most of which I have never met, nor do I have the desire to do so as they are all as dull and monotonous as the clothes they have donned upon themselves, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad- I’m afraid that with my bizarre personality there will be far more of these, sorry about that- and in joy as well as in sorrow.”

He coughed nervously as felt his throat constrict and his suit suddenly felt too tight around his neck.

“John, I vow myself to you forever and promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals- however mundane they may be, to honor and respect you- even though I will insult you a considerable amount of the time, to laugh with you and to cry with you- yeah, not sure about that, but it keeps the rhythm of this preposterous speech going, and to cherish you,” he swallowed the lump in his throat as he blinked the emotion away from his face and he stammered looking down at their joined hands, silver sparkling in the artificial light, “to cherish and treasure and revere you, as you are the bravest, kindest, most loyal human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. You and Evelyn are the loves of my life, and I vow to protect you both for as long as we both shall live.”

He looked up to find John’s face painted with affection and reverence and watched as a single tear slid down his masculine face. He smiled, and the movement of his cheeks set free another set of happy tears from his sparkling blue eyes.

Sherlock froze in terror and his gut chilled as he mumbled nervously, “Oh God, John, I did it wrong. I’m sorry. I didn’t- I know I didn’t follow the script- I couldn’t-”

“Daddy!”

Evelyn’s high pitch squeal shocked the entire room as she leapt from Mrs. Hudson’s lap and her fluffy white flower-girl dress ran down the aisle to the altar jumping in John’s arms. He picked her up and hugged her small frame to him on his hip as she delicately rubbed at his face, wiping the tears away with sticky hands.

“Daddy, don’t cry! Dad loves you a lot- I know it- he just says it funny. I’ll teach him to say it right next time, don’t cry!”

The wedding hall broke out into a cacophony of sniffles, laughs, moans of endearment, and claps as John hugged his daughter closer to him. He smiled as he wiped his own tears away with the back of his hand.

“Sometimes, sweetheart, when someone’s heart gets too happy, a little bit spills from their eyes.” He lifted his gaze towards Sherlock, “Don’t worry, love. Dad said it _exactly_ right.”

Sherlock’s face softened as he turned to the vicar, “For God’s sakes, can’t we get this _over_ already?”

The vicar called order to the hall and began his closing, his weathered voice filling the hall once more.

“Do you, John Hamish Watson, promise to hold true to your vow, and to love this man for the remainder of your time on this Earth?”

John smiled and nodded, his voice shaking with delight, “I do.”

The vicar turned to Sherlock and repeated, “Do you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, promise to hold true to your vow, and to love this man for the remainder of your time on this Earth?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t be daft! I wouldn’t have put up with this mundane socially-constructed nonsense if-!” He stopped abruptly as he caught John’s disapproving glare. He groaned and shifted on his heels, “I do.”

The vicar closed the book in his hands and smiled, “Then by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and husband.”

“Now kiss so we can drink, dammit!” Lestrade shouted from the pew, Molly elbowing him directly in the kidney, causing him to double over in his seat.

Sherlock show a scornful look at him but before he could open his mouth to retort, John had taken his lips hostage, filling him with heat and affection.

The crowd that filled the reception hall cheered and Evelyn squealed and rubbed her face into John’s suit.

Sherlock smiled at long last and for a moment every thought in his mind was John.

For a moment, life was perfect.

 

***

 

“D-dad?”

Sherlock lifted his hand from John’s chest and rolled over groggily at the sound of Evelyn’s voice. He rubbed at his eyes as he tried to blink the sleep away and studied her face from afar. In her left hand she carried her favorite Moleskin copy of _The Hobbit_ (John had given it to her for her birthday knowing that she liked to sleep with it on occasion and leather is more forgiving than cardboard covers) and her face ( _scared, tired, impression of hand on cheek_ ) was stained with tears as she sniffled and wiped at her face with her right hand.

Sherlock grimaced and patted his lap softly, “Come here, little bird. Did you have a bad dream?”

She hiccuped and nodded before she ran across the room and leapt onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his chest as she began to sob. Her tears fell hard onto Sherlock’s torso and he rubbed at her back, “Shhh”-ing her fears away.

“Oh darling, it’s all right. Shhh- I’ve got you now. You’re okay.” His baritone voice hummed every syllable like a melody, knowing that was the best way to calm her nerves.

John stirred at the sound of Sherlock’s tuneful distress, “Hrmph,” he mumbled, rolling onto his back and rubbing his face with his palm, “S’going on?”

Sherlock repositioned Evelyn on his lap so that he was cradling her head next to John and her feet to the side of the bed. “Evelyn had a nightmare,” Sherlock said frankly as he rubbed on the frightened child’s back. John pushed himself difficultly up with his palms, resting his back on the headboard and rubbed his daughter’s head, flattening the sandy curls cascading down.

“You’re okay, Eevee.” A new pet-name John had coined during the past summer. “We’re here, nothing’s gonna get you. Do you want to tell us what it was about?”

She hiccuped again and nodded, slightly pushing herself off of Sherlock’s chest. “There was a man in my room. He asked to play with me, but I didn’t want to and he got angry.” She began to weep again at the memories. “He had dark eyes. They looked like night sky, except there weren’t any stars. And he was scruffy,” she rubbed at Sherlock’s jaw, “like Daddy when he doesn’t shave.” She fell back into her father’s chest as her body convulsed in sobs, “He asked me if I missed him, but I didn’t even _know_ him so I said no. He got mad and said something about burning my heart.” She clutched at her chest defensively, pressing her small book over her heart. “I don’t want my heart burned out, Dad!”

Sherlock’s entire body stiffened and he couldn’t breathe save one word, “John…”

John had already hopped out of the bed and was pulling his Sig from the bedside table, silently padding out of the room with the practiced urgency of a soldier.

Sherlock’s heart stilled as he forcefully sat Evelyn straight on his lap, gripping her shoulders as he stared at her head-on.

“Evelyn, this is very serious, I need you to tell me everything you remember about the man in your room. What did he sound like? What else did he say?”

She trembled and hiccuped again, “His voice sounded like he was singing, but wasn’t very good at it. He sounded almost like the man at Speedy’s.” Sherlock knew in an instant which man she was referring to: a younger gentleman from Dublin who had recently taken up a position at Speedy’s as a cashier. She rubbed at her face with her free hand, “His thumb had a callous like he used his phone too much and he smelled like the black powder stuff in guns and the stuff Daddy uses when he gets dressed up.”

 _Gunpowder and cologne_ : it could only mean one person, but that was out of the question.

“Evelyn, did he say anything else- anything at all? I need to know _everything_ he said to you. It’s very important.” Sherlock’s panic was only just being concealed in his voice as his mind raced in the background and his focus lied on Evelyn in the foreground.

Evelyn shifted away from him as she started to spook, “He told me not to play with fire because I’d get burned. And then he said that he’d be back, but he wouldn’t say when. Then he grabbed me and told me to play careful.” She exposed her wrists, showing a slight shadow of a bruise that was forming. Her tear-filled eyes looked up in terror, “Dad, are you okay? You’re scaring me!”

Sherlock’s face had completely lost all color and his pale eyes were wide with fear. He reminded himself to breathe, but it only came out in pants, and he gently placed his palm to his forehead.

_It can’t be him. That’s impossible. Completely impossible, I watched him die. It can’t be him. It can’t be him. It can’t be him._

John burst through the doorway, chest heaving and weapon still drawn, “No one’s up there, but someone had been. The window was unlatched.” He took a cautioned step forward, palm out. “Sherlock, love- are you all right?”

His ashen face was contorted with a pain John hadn’t seen since before he had come back from the dead and his panting had evolved into wheezing sobs as panic boiled in his chest as he clutched his hand to his torso.

He stumbled to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, nearly falling with every step and slammed the door behind him. His back hit the wall next to the toilet and he slid to the ground, watching the room spin before his eyes.

_No. Nononononononono. I can’t do this. Oh my God. It can’t be him. Please._

John rushed to his daughter and kissed her cheek, eyes still on the bathroom door. “Evelyn, stay here and read. I’m just going to go take care of Dad okay?”

Evelyn began to cry as he walked away, “Is Dad sick?”

He turned slightly before reaching the door, “He’s just a little scared; that’s all. Just stay there, alright?” He turned the knob and shut it behind him turning to face a hyperventilating Sherlock positioned on the ground. He knees were drawn up to his chest and his hands were knotted in his curly hair as terrified tears streamed down his face.

“Sherlock!”

He knelt in front of his husband and pressed a hand to his stomach and the other in front of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Try and push my hand with your stomach and blow my other hand with your breath. You’re okay, Sherlock. Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Sherlock barely heard the command as stars and flashing lights clouded his vision but he weakly puffed out his cheeks with every rapid exhale, not yet able to regain control of his lungs.

John’s stern face peered at Sherlock’s panicked one as he pushed Sherlock’s legs straight out and carefully removed Sherlock’s hands from his hair, placing one on his abdomen, and then the other plat against John's heart. He wrapped his fingers gently around Sherlock's wrists, his fingers firmly taking the detective's accelerated radial pulse. “Come on, push against your hand. Breathe, relax; we’re alright. See? My heart's beating. I'm right here. Focus on my heartbeat. Count it.” Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room-predominately on John and the bathroom door- unable to focus on anything for any length of time until he finally pinched them tight in an attempt to reign in his lungs. His fingers trembled and dumbly flexed against John's chest, not actually feeling anything. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Evelyn’s right in our bed, she’s fine. Breathe.”

The room continued to spin as Sherlock tried to do as he was told. He was terrified at how his body was reacting to the stress. He couldn’t think about anything besides blinking lights; his fingers felt numb and clumsy; his mouth felt dry and sore; and his ears rang from the lack of Oxygen. He felt his eyebrows furrow and droop as his mind turned white, and he could sense the lack of control he had in his body as he began to slump forward.

“Nope. Nope, come on, Sherlock. Breathe! Get a hold of yourself,” John demanded as he patted Sherlock’s cheek firmly, but gently. Sherlock opened his eyes again and focused directly on John’s alert ones, and as he started to push against his hand, the blows from his lips became more concentrated and full.

John met Sherlock’s gaze and stroked his cheek, “There we go, love. Breathe. Nice and easy, just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’re all right.”

Sherlock slowly regained his ability to breathe, not breaking eye contact with John the entirety of the episode. He then slumped forward into John’s chest, sobs emitting from his gravelly throat.

“John! I… but… Moriarty… I can’t…”

John flattened the hair on the back of Sherlock’s head as he spoke, “Shhh, I know. I know, Sherlock. We’ll figure it out. Evelyn’s not hurt. We’ll figure out a way to keep her safe. Just relax. You’re not going to help anyone in that condition.”

Sherlock’s tears eventually subsided and he hugged into John’s chest. “I’m sorry… That’s never happened before…”

John rubbed gently and lovingly at his back, “You just had a panic attack, Sherlock. In this situation, I think it’s completely understandable. The feeling in your fingers will come back as long as you breathe right for a while, and the room will stop spinning in a little bit. Just stay here with me for a moment.”

Silence filled the room; save for the sound of the two men breathing against each other, both terrified of what they both knew was inevitable.

“John.” Sherlock whispered, voice still shaking from fear. “He’s back, John. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I can’t lose you and Evelyn. I can’t. I just… I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

John leaned back and smiled weakly, “It’s not just you anymore Sherlock: we’re a family. We’ll figure it out, you’re not alone. It won’t be like last time. I’ll be here. We’ll find him and put him down for good. I promise.”

Sherlock looked at him then leaned against the wall and sighed in vexation, slamming his fist on the tile floor.

Sherlock didn’t know how he came back, but Moriarty would _not_ hurt his family.

He didn’t care what measures it took, he vowed that Moriarty would never touch the two Watsons he called his own.

He inhaled deeply willing himself to get up knowing that this was just the beginning.

This was just the calm before the storm.

 


	6. Vatican Cameo

“You know, I don’t care what those teen magazines say. Blood does _not_ bring out the color in your eyes.”

The stubborn twelve year old winced as John delicately wiped at her bleeding lip, smirking.

“You should see _him_.” She chuckled, the memories of her fight lighting fire in her eyes. “He better be glad I only gave him a black eye… or a broken nose… or um… Either way he deserved it.”

John rolled his eyes and grinned, “Who did you attack and why?”

Evelyn huffed indignantly and waved her hands in the air dramatically, “I didn’t _attack_ anyone! That incompetent Neanderthal Mark Donovan keeps picking at my friends and today he said I had a _freak_ for a Dad! He’s been getting worse every day so I decided to shut him up.”

Sherlock snorted he glanced up from his book and John shot him a cross glare, “Apples and trees, John.”

John groaned at the double meaning then stilled, his eyebrows reaching his hairline in realization, “Wait, _Mark Donovan_? Evelyn, he’s nearly twice your size! He could have really hurt you!” He placed his hand on her cheek, pressing to make his point; his concerned gaze boring holes in her conscience.

The obstinate pre-teen rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, “You don’t have to be _big_ to win a fight. Anyways,” she huffed, waving her hand in dismissal, “it’s easy enough to dodge his clumsy fists when your opponent is as effectively inept as a _doorknob_. All I had to do was wait for him to swing then hit him back twice as hard. Come on, Daddy, it’s not _that_ difficult.”

John rolled his head to the side and coughed pointedly at the ebony-haired man in his chair. He smiled keenly and looked back down to his book, not actually reading the text, “I have no _idea_ where she learned to talk like that. I think she gets it from your side of the family.”

“Evelyn,” John fussed, ignoring Sherlock and still wiping at her chin, “Dad’s a grown man- he doesn’t need you defending his honor. Anyways, you shouldn’t start fights with people bigger than you.”

Evelyn stared directly in John’s eyes, the fire in them challenging him, “I’m _not_ going to stand back and let ignorant people criticize others because they’re _different_.” She spat the word with venom and pointed out of the window as if her subject was outside it to observe. “He picks on Sandra Parkinson because she stutters! Why make fun of someone about something they can’t change?” She crossed her arms on her chest again and leaned back in the chair obstinately and huffed. “He’s nothing but a contemptible bully with the attention span of a _goldfish_ and I’m not going to let him get away with terrorizing completely acceptable people if I can stop it. And Daddy, look at me!” She gestured to her petite body with a dramatic wave of her hands.

“ _Everyone_ is bigger than me! Are you _really_ trying to teach me to be afraid of anybody that’s taller than five feet? I’d never leave my room!”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and quirked a small grin, “She is _your_ daughter after all.”

Evelyn looked at Sherlock and grinned brazenly, “I mean, I _did_ give him a warning; it’s not my fault that he’s too stupid to recognize it.”

John raised an eyebrow and questioned, “A warning?”

She crinkled her nose in triumph and grinned staring directly into her father’s navy eyes, “Vatican Cameo.”

Sherlock’s ears heightened and he dropped his book to the floor, gripping his sides as a hearty laugh escaped his throat. John, too, burst out laughing in front of Evelyn’s face, bending over forward, and half covering his face in his palms.

Evelyn chuckled at her triumph and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

John cleared his throat authoritatively, his voice still catching with every laugh, “Eevee, although you might be incredibly clever, that doesn’t mean that you can just use that as an excuse to fight with people.”

Sherlock wiped at his face, his bright sea-green eyes sparkling, as he sat forward on his chair and padded over to their daughter sitting at the table. He placed his large hand on her smaller, cold ones and smiled.

“You know, you’re right, Evelyn. Sometimes those who prey on the meek and unique _do_ need to be taught a lesson. Although, if you’re so clever, why did you need to resort to violence to demonstrate your point? Does one wrong right another?”

Evelyn narrowed her eyes as she thought about it, and then looked down at her bruised hands sullenly.

“I don’t know… I guess I just got so mad that he was getting off on hurting people, and I just wanted to stop it, but no one ever listens to me.” She chewed on her cheek as she looked away from both of her fathers and to the window opposite them. “They think that because I’m a girl, I’m weak and stupid. It’s infuriating! I just wanted to show them that I’m not going to get walked on…”

Sherlock placed his warm hand on her cheek and smiled. Age had drawn light wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and a dab of silver had begun to paint his temples, “Little bird, no one thinks you can’t handle yourself. You just don’t need to go parading it around.” He glanced at John who smiled and flushed. “You should have seen how many scrapes your Daddy got us out of because the criminal underestimated him.” He raised his eyebrows playfully and kissed her cheek. “Ironically, people who perceive _you_ as weak are the easiest to overpower. An author named George R.R. Martin once wrote ‘A small man can cast a very large shadow.’ And it’s not because he used his sword,” He poked her forehead gently with the tip of his finger and she smiled at him, “it was because he used his cleverness.”

She looked bashfully at Sherlock’s creased eyes and half-smiled. “Okay. I can’t promise that I won’t, but I’ll _try_ not to come home bleeding anymore.”

Sherlock and John both grinned and the taller man patted her shoulder, “That’s my girl.”

 

***

 

_“Wake up.”_

Evelyn furrowed her eyebrows and groaned, rubbing her hands at her face.

“Dad?” Her voice was still rough with sleep as she pushed herself straight up on her palms.

_“Not quite.”_

In an instant she was wide awake and looking around her room frantically, finally placing the voice. “What do you want?”

A soft sing-song voice hummed her favorite melody in the shadows of her room, “I just wanted to say hi, Evelyn.”

She tensed as a shiver ran down her spine. She hadn’t heard the voice in almost seven years, but she recognized it immediately. She would never forget the look on her Dad’s face when she described the man to him in his bed. She had been so scared that Dad was sick, and when Daddy’s told her to sit still on the bed, she cried herself to sleep with worry. For months after that, one of her fathers had slept in her room every night, silently guarding her as she slept. Dad had only recently stopped checking in on her in the middle of the night, and searching her room before going back downstairs, and she had thought that the nightmare she had as a child was over.

She sucked in a shaky breath, her bell-pitched voice trembling, “H-hello.”

“Why are you so frightened, little bird?” She could hear the devilish smile in the tone, although she couldn’t see his face.

Her skin prickled and she mentally hardened her heart, invisibly donning herself with imaginary armor. “Don’t call me that.”

A sickly sweet laugh radiated from the corner of her room and she twisted quickly to face it. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Evelyn Mary Watson. Somebody must _really_ love you to give you such a pretty name.”

“What do you _want_?” She repeated, heatedly. She could feel the hairs stand up on her neck as her fight or flight reflexes kicked in. She reached over and flicked on her bedside light, illuminating the room in a split second.

Opposite her bed in the corner stood a thin man with a round, yet soft face; his eyes had only darkened since the last time she had seen him, and his smile had only twisted further into a permanent sneer.

“Hi there.” He said slowly, milking every syllable for its worth. “Were you afraid that I was just a bad dream?”

She carefully slid her pajama-clad legs to the side of her bed, her feet dangling just inches from the floor. “I’m not afraid of you.”

His rounded eyes widened enthusiastically as he bared his teeth, “Oh really? You _should_ be. Your Dad is, you know.” He stepped further into the room, the pale light illuminating every scar and imperfection on his skin in the sickly gloom. “He’s _terrified_ of me.”

She slid slightly forward touching the balls of her feet onto the rug near her nightstand. “No he’s not.” She lied, her voice retaining John’s steadfast authority. “He _beat_ you. And _he’s_ not the one hiding in a little girl’s room in the middle of the night.”

The dark-haired man smiled wryly, cocking an eyebrow. “You _are_ your father’s daughter, aren’t you, you cheeky little thing?”

“I presume you actually know more about genetics than you claim to,” she spat defensively, her fists balling at her sides.

He smiled wider, his words spilling out of his moth like smoke, “ _Both_ your fathers’.”

She straightened herself on her bed, shoulders prepared to pounce at any moment, “Do you just like watching me sleep or do you want something?” She picked up her pillow and held it to her chest as if using as a shield, but instead of being frightened, her hand slid under the pillow and her hand grasped her mobile; practiced fingers unlocked the screen and opened a message without lowering her gaze from the man in front of her.

 

Send To: Dad

_VC. SOS._

Sent: 02:37

 

“Your name is Jim, right?” She asked sternly, pausing to make sure her voice covered the inevitable ping that piqued her ears from downstairs. “Jim Moriarty?”

Her parents had told her a little about this man after the incident in her room seven years ago. As far as she knew, this man was meant to have been dead by his own hand- a bullet to the brain. But from the pictures her dads had shown her, this man was different- marginally, and barely noticeable, but different nonetheless. His eyes were rounder, younger than the man in the photographs’. His chin was longer, only by a fraction, but the bone jutted out too far for it to be a trick of the camera. His nose had a notch in its bridge as if it had been broken as a child, and was never properly placed back.

She stood then, laying her pillow back on the bed, never revealing the mobile hiding in the pillow case, “No. Not _Jim_. You’re not him. Who was he to you, then? Your brother, perhaps? You look too similar to be anything else I think.”

The man smiled and cocked his eyebrow, “You are clever, aren’t you?”

She squared her shoulders, playing for time, and questioned him further, “Then what do you want with me? Your brother’s _dead_. He has been for _years_. What could you possibly need to bother me for?”

He then bared his teeth in a wicked snarl, his sing-song voice filling the room with animosity, “My brother wanted to set fire to the illustrious and legendary Holmes’ Heart.” He tucked his chin into his chest, “I intend to make that happen.”

She felt a shiver run down her spine as she narrowed her eyes at him, “In case it hasn’t occurred to you, you’re in the wrong bedroom to do anything to my father.”

“On the contrary, sweetheart,” He sneered, lifting an empty syringe from his behind his back, “I already have.”

She stared at the needle in disbelief, her jaw dropping slightly in fear, “W-what is that?”

He tossed it on the floor, the metal and plastic clattering against the wood, and began to walk towards her, “You are really rather boring, Evelyn. I thought we could have so much fun, but you’re just as mind-numbing as your father.” He smiled further, every step he took closing the distance between him and the young girl. “Did he ever tell you about the HOUND? Oh, that _was_ a rather fun case! Have you ever seen your Dad scared out of his wits?” He smiled wryly at the thought. “Oh doll, he certainly makes the funniest faces.”

She started to pant as her chest began to burn, “He’s gonna kill you.” She felt her knees wobble as she tried to take a step towards the door, but her feet couldn’t hold her weight. She hit the ground with a sickening thump, and before she could recover, she felt a gloved hand grab her upper arm and turn her on her back. The man straddled her on the ground, his pelvis pushing uncomfortably against her gut and his knees pinning her hips in place. Every plane of his body emitted heat that burned her, and she could smell the smoke that rose around him like an aura. The demon-man’s left hand pinned her arm to the ground, and his other wrapped around her thin neck, squeezing the life from her petite body as she gasped and squeaked.

He grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the artificial light, as his eyes turned to dark fiery orbs in their sockets. His voice, growling with a masonic funeral melody, grated like razors against her ears. “Honey, I would _love_ to see him try.”

She did her best to beat her feet against the wood floor underneath them, but the pseudo-Moriarty’s weight pushed on her too heavily and completely for her to be able to maneuver around him. She clawed at his ever-darkening face as much as she could manage, but the drug and lack of air was beginning to take their toll on her muscles. His grip tightened around her throat, completely cutting off her Oxygen as he leaned in close, smoke escaping from his mouth and into her face, “See you around, _doll_.”

With that, he leaned back, releasing her from his grip, and his dark form elongated to the ceiling. She gasped, swallowing the cool air in her room as she heard the window unhitch, and her eyes shot up to find the man flying out of her window and onto the roof. She clamored to her feet and pushed the window free, her heart beating violently against her chest. The man glided down the semi-steep rooftop and she pulled herself to the window to chase him down. Throughout the night, a storm had come and the thunder startled her, causing her to hesitate before finally stepping out onto the roof.

Another crash of thunder rang from within her room and she turned to see a tall, slender blue dragon crawling into her room, hissing as he tried to slither across the distance to her window. Fire flew from his pointed jaws as he screeched and his daggered claws scratched at her skin.

She screamed and recoiled out onto the soaked tiles, sliding a little farther down, “Daddy! Please, Dad, help me! _Please!_ ” She pushed the curls out of her face before her knees hit the ceiling as her body collapsed from the pain she felt in her chest. Her heart felt like it was speeding down into oblivion; she could hear the accelerando of her pulse thrum in her ears, as she clutched at the fire that was burning in her torso. “Don’t let it burn my heart, _please Daddy, help!_ ”

She gasped as she tried to regain her feet, but only succeeded in sliding a little farther down the slick rooftop, the rough tiles slicing into her heated skin.

She watched in horror as the navy dragon slithered from her window and out onto the roof, fire and smoke escaping from his bared teeth as throaty growl reverberated from his seething jaws.

She raised a hand in defense, screaming, “You stay away! I mean it! My Dad will _kill_ you if you-!” She screamed as her weight slid farther down on the roof, her feet only inches from the eaves. Lightning flashed across the sky and the bright light accented the cuts in the dragon’s scales; the thunder clapped as he growled at her again, inching ever closer with scrapes of his claws against the slippery shingles. His hind legs and tail swung around him as he lost his footing and he slid closer to her form.

She clutched at her chest again, cringing as the heat raged through her body like wildfire and she began to tremble from the aching in her torso. Her soaked form curled around herself as tears mingled with the rain, her golden curls sticking to her face.

“Go away!” She cried, her voice doing nothing to mask the agony in her minor body. She could almost feel the steam rise from her skin as her burning heart pounded against her ribcage as if trying to escape onto the roof and into the rain to cool down. She gasped as her heart finally skipped a beat, and her face fell flat on the grainy shingles. Her eyelids dilated in alarm as she skipped another beat, a sickly empty sensation permeating throughout her entire being.

She felt her feet slide and dangle from the eaves into the precipice of Baker Street, and her nails dug into the roof as far as she could manage. The blue dragon snarled and fire erupted from his throat as he lunged to grab her with his claws.

Her heart skipped out again and this time her body stilled and her cheek scratched against the shingles.

Her blue eyes fluttered shut as she slipped off the roof.

 

***

 

Sherlock hugged John against his pale frame as a soft _ping_ pulled him from slumber. He raised one eyelid to examine the clock on the far wall, taking a moment for him to focus enough to read it.

02:38

He groaned and rubbed his nose gently into John’s short sandy hair, inhaling the remnants of his spiced shampoo and John’s own personal fragrance, as his hand splayed out onto his chest.

The only person who ever tried to get a hold of him at this hour was Lestrade, so he was determined to make him sweat as he ignored him. He gently rolled out of bed and padded out into the bathroom, shutting the door as he went to relieve himself and wash the sleep from his face.

He looked into the mirror at the sleep-deprived man staring back at him and sighed. His once ebony hair was now tinged with silver all throughout, and the crow’s feet around his eyes had only deepened since he had last checked.

“Inconvenient,” he muttered to himself, wiping his face clean with the flannel placed at the porcelain sink. He pulled on his housecoat and picked up his phone, sitting back on the bed, careful to not wake John’s still unconscious frame. He swiped the phone unlocked, but before he could read the message, he heard pounding against the floor above him as if Evelyn was up and walking around. He furrowed his brow in confusion as Evelyn was just as particular as her father about her sleep patterns. Once she had laid her head to rest for the night, she didn’t normally wake until the sun had already made its appearance the next day.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and walked out into the sitting area, then to the kitchen turning on the kettle. _If everyone is going to get up soon, might as well_ , he thought to himself. He pulled out three mugs from the cupboard and placed them gently on the counter-top. He leaned his hip against the counter as he pulled the phone gracefully from his pocket again, swiping it unlocked once more.

 

From: Evelyn

_VC. SOS._

Received 02:37

 

( _Read: Vatican Cameo. Save our Ship.)_

 

He knew in a moment what the five letters meant and he dropped his phone to the floor, scrambling to the door.

His bare feet flew up the stair way and he swung the door open with a slam, consciously loud enough to wake John.

He stared in horror as his daughter pulled herself out of the window and into the storm raging on the roof. At the noise of the door opening, she jerked towards him and yelped, half-falling the rest of the way out of the window and onto the roof.

Within the second he could see what had happened. ( _Syringe on floor, drugged, self-medicated?, pupils dilated, having trouble breathing, elevated heart rate, pain?, scared, hot)_

He opened his mouth and heard “John!” bellow from his gut. He slowly walked to the door, palms out and spoke soothingly, “Evelyn, it’s all right. Can you see me? I’m your father, I’ll help you.” His face was soft and pleading for her safety as he stepped forward.

She recoiled back farther and her dilated eyes darted around in confusion as she screamed, “Daddy! Please, Dad, help me! _Please!_ ”

Sherlock faked a reassuring smile, not wanting to advertise his panic as he made it to the window, “Sweetheart, it’s me. I’m right here. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Please, love, you’re going to be okay.”

Her knees buckled and Sherlock’s heart stopped as she fell on the rooftop. Her small, trembling hand darted up, holding Sherlock back and she looked at him with an expression of terror that curdled his gut. Her face was white as a sheet and her lips quivering from fear, “You stay away! I mean it! My Dad will _kill_ you if you-!” Her high-pitched squeal broke Sherlock’s heart as she slipped farther down the roof, the shingles cutting into her fair skin and causing her blood to mix with the rain on her skin. Her feet dangled precariously close to the eaves and if she made one false move, Sherlock knew she would slide off the edge.

“Evelyn!” He climbed nimbly through the window and crouched on the roof tiles, bracing his body against the slickness that threatened to send him sliding down. Evelyn clutched at her chest and gasped, a small squeak escaping her lips as she swallowed air. Sherlock only then noticed the hand-shaped-bruises forming around her thin neck. She lowered her head as her body began to tremble and she gasped and whined in pain. “Evelyn! I’m right here! Dad’s right here, love. Everything’s all right.” His baritone had to battle to be heard against the thunder claps in the sky.

“Sherlock! What the Fuck?!”

John’s terrified voice echoed from the window and Sherlock turned, yelling back, “Something’s wrong! She’s hurt and hallucinating!” He spun back to Evelyn, but he lost his footing and slid a meter or so down with a deep frightened gasp as he clung onto the roof, the tiles cutting into his long fingers and the pads of his feet scraping against them. “Evelyn, stay there! I’m coming to get you!

Evelyn’s body writhed in agony as her frail voice warned, “Go away!” Her hands clutched at her chest as she gasped again, everything in her body language screaming pain. Suddenly, her body hitched as if it had been shocked, and her face slammed onto the rough shingles as she wheezed; every breath correlated to a slight whimper and wince.

Sherlock eased down a little farther, his curls sticking against his soaked skin. He could hear John mumbling from the window, hopefully calling an ambulance of sorts, since Evelyn looked absolutely dreadful. His aging brows furrowed in worry, “Evelyn, sweetheart, where do you hurt?”

She glanced at him again; her bright blue eyes merely thin rings around her huge pupils. Her eyes widened as another shock was sent through her system, and the rain in front of her mouth splashed as she exhaled in anguish, every breath accompanied with a pitiful moan of pain.

“Evelyn,” Sherlock called out, sliding down almost far enough to touch her, “let me help you.”

Her eyes fluttered towards him in terror, and then gently closed as her body lost traction on the roof.

“Sherlock!” John hollered in horror as he watched their daughter’s delicate form slide off of the slick roof.

“ _Evelyn!”_ Sherlock bellowed in conjunction with John as fear gripped his heart and propelled him into action. He thrust himself forward and down the roof, his hand just wrapping around her right wrist as her body dangled into the street below. In the action, though, his body slid down the slick tiles and his baritone cried aloud as he grappled to find footing to no avail and his soaked body slid off the roof, his left hand barely catching the eaves and his daughter dangling at his side.

John screamed a deep cry of horror as he watched Sherlock fall, his mind already flashing back to the Fall. He gave himself a mental shake and within the next tick of a secondhand was already out on the roof, sliding down to the edge of it, his soldier’s reflexes preparing him a little more for the dangerous descent.

“Sherlock!” He called, reaching his hand to the eaves at the side of the roof, and catching Sherlock’s eyes as he slipped a bit on the tiles. The silver-blue eyes were wide in distress as his hand gripped the thin metal for his and his daughter’s lives.

“John! Grab her!” Sherlock yelled back, his right arm trying desperately to lift his daughter’s entire weight, but the slickness of her wrist and the force of gravity proved too strong and his grip on her only loosened.

John lunged forward and wrapped his strong hand in her collar, pulling up enough to be able to reach her arms with his other hand. He leaned back on the roof, pulling her limp body onto his chest, but as he did, the force of both of their weights caused his foot to slip and he kicked the eave from the roof.

“Jesus Christ!”

The thin metal whined as it pulled from the brick inlay. Sherlock threw both of his hands to it and pulled, his weight causing the metal to screech in protest. “John, go! I’ll be fine! Take her inside!”

John’s heart tore from the pain of wanting to save both, but he knew at that point it would only be logical to save his daughter first. He backed his way to the window, cutting his feet on the shingles as he slid a few times on the trek up. He used one hand to pull, and the other to hold his daughter to his chest, the weak heartbeat she still had pattering against him.

Sherlock swung as the metal pulled away from the brick, fasteners pulling out noisily and flying into the street. He dug his feet into the brick wall and kicked, the force propelling his legs onto the roof, and he slid his body upward, the metal still whining under his weight. His heart pounded against his chest and he could almost hear his muscles screaming in objection, but he sat back on the roof and eased backwards until he reached the window with a thunk against the back of his head.

He pulled himself gracelessly through it and landed heavy against the wood, knocking his head on the unforgiving floor. Slightly dazed, he scrambled to his feet and followed the bloody footprints, stumbling down the stairs with every step.

He pushed the door open with clumsy hands, eyes falling on the sandy haired doctor straddling his daughter on the ground his hands compressing against her chest measuredly.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice was strangled in his throat and sounded alien even to him.

John turned at him, face contorted in pain and tears sparkling in his eyes, but his palms never wavering in their endeavors “I got her down here and her heart stopped beating! I- fuck! Jesus Christ!”

He bent forward and pressed his lips to hers, breathing life into the unconscious form. “Come on, Eevee! Please!”

As he lifted back to compress on her chest further, the two men heard a clamor down the stairs and within the minute paramedics were swarming the flat, struggling to remove John from caring for his daughter as the AED was attached to her still form.

“Please, let me see her! She’s my daughter!” His voice cracked with emotion as Sherlock wrapped his long arms around his heaving chest and restrained him from the paramedics. He backed gently to the fireplace and gripped John tighter as his strong body struggled to be set free.

“John! Be still!” Sherlock growled into his ear as John raged to get away from him. He heard as electricity shot through his daughter and she gasped and his heart jumped. John only struggled more fiercely as the paramedics surrounded her and completely blocked her from his vision.

“Dammit, Sherlock! Let me go! I need to help!” He spat back, tears freely streaming down his heated face at this point.

Sherlock grimaced to himself as he placed two fingers between John’s clavicle and throat, “I’m sorry, John.” He pressed gently, but forcefully and John’s seething body fell slack in his embrace. He gently laid him on the carpet and stood back up to speak to the paramedic as her colleagues carried the still unconscious but now breathing Evelyn down the stairs on a stretcher.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, sir.” She said honestly, wrapping her gear around her as she made for the door. “She was obviously drugged, but we don’t know what it was, yet. We’ll run her blood when we get to the hospital.”

He thanked her as she ran out and he took stock of the entire situation in his mind.

( _Hallucinations, dilated pupils, fever, pain, dyspnea, imbalance, chest pain, stranger, break in, fear)_

_PCP, LSD, Midazolam?_

He knew this event had to be connected to the same event all those years ago, he just couldn’t fathom why someone would wait that long to prove their point. He paced the floor and groaned.

_Moriarty? No. Dead. Dead. Dead. I made sure of it. Copycat? Similar trick to the small girl before the Fall? It can’t be_ that _hard to mimic his looks. An accent is easy enough to fake. How did he drug her? In her sleep, yes. Why? What was the significance? I need more! Wait-_

His eyes widened in realization and his jaw dropped.

_Chest pain… Evelyn. I need to talk to Evelyn._

He growled into the room in frustration as he jerked his fingers through his hair. He turned back towards the fireplace only to be greeted with a cloud of red against his vision as John’s fist connected with his cheek. He staggered as his body fell to the ground, hand nursing the impact zone tenderly.

“The hell was _that_?” John hissed, his temper radiating from every plane of his body.

Sherlock raised a hand in defense, still sprawled on the ground, his nose dripping crimson onto his lips, “John, calm down. You’re not going to help anyone like that. We _need_ to speak to Evelyn! I just need some more evidence and I might-”

“No! Shut up, Sherlock!” He waved his hands in dismissal as he paced the sitting room floor. “How dare you! How _dare_ you prick- you- you-” his temper caused him to fumble for the most spiteful words he could muster, “You bloody machine!”

Sherlock recoiled visibly at the words he hadn’t heard since his last day before the Fall in Bart’s. He pulled up to his knees and held his palms out, pleading for patience, “Now John, listen to yoursel-”

“No! _You_ listen!” He shouted, his hands finding Sherlock’s shoulders and driving him back to the floor. “This is _your_ fault!” His frustrated tears dripped onto Sherlock’s flushed cheeks. “I have lost _everyone_ , Sherlock! I am _not_ losing her, too! I can’t believe- she’s dying and you just-!”

Sherlock grimaced in offense, not struggling against John’s grip, “ _MY_ fault? How is this _my_ fault?”

John’s dark blue eyes filled with rage as he bruised the fibers of the carpet into Sherlock’s shoulders. His red face nearly steamed the saline falling from his eyes away, “This absurd _game_! You started it years ago with that psycho and we’re still playing it! You can’t get enough of it! It’s your fucking fix, Sherlock!”

Fire burned in Sherlock’s chest as he gracefully flipped their bodies, pinning John to the floor with both arms on his shoulders. He drew his face up to John’s and snarled with a ferocity that John had long since forgotten, “Do not doubt my sentiment towards our daughter, John. If you would like to break down and show the world your incompetence, be my guest. I, however, resent that notion, finding that discovering the truth about her attacker would be far more logical than moping about her lack of safety.” His piercing blue eyes skewered John’s apprehensive expression into the carpet. “This is no longer a game. If you in any way hinder my investigation, I will find him on my own. I suggest that you not presume to think that you for one moment understand my motives, for I abhor them being questioned.”

Sherlock’s narrowed eyes scanned over John’s before he lifted himself up, leaving the stunned John lying on the ground staring at the ceiling. He padded into their room and changed into a black suit and shirt combination, tied his shoes on the bed and walked back out into the sitting room within a few minutes. John was now on his elbows staring Sherlock down with apprehension, curiosity, and worry. He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal, his brow furrowing in wrath.

Sherlock walked to the door and stiffly pulled his jacket from the wall. He spoke to the door frame, his expression apathetic, “I will be searching for more evidence. If you would prefer to sulk, that is your prerogative.”

Without another breath, his tall frame was clicking down the stairwell leaving John lying on the sitting room floor: confused, terrified, and all alone.

 


	7. Keep Your Enemies Closer

His still bleeding feet ached as he sat in the cab and he glared out the window, staring at the passing London before his eyes and sighed, exasperated.

_John surely hadn’t meant that,_ his subconscious told him, trying in every way to calm his raging nerves. _He was scared and angry and you were there to take it out on. John loves you. He’s put up with you for years now. That certainly means he does… Right?_

“Idiot.” Sherlock was shocked at the sound of his own voice, and his hand shot up to cover his offending mouth. He could still feel the heat in his flushed cheeks from where John’s words had stung him. The bruise on the left side of his face was beginning to shadow and would surely leave an impressive testament to John’s strength; strength he had used against Sherlock.

The mostly-ebony haired man leaned back in his seat and groaned. John was being irrational. John was being emotional. John wasn’t being himself. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. As he sighed, the window fogged up, and Sherlock put his fingers to it. He traced the shape of an anatomically-incorrect heart in the condensation and smiled. Evelyn loved to do that on rainy or cold days. She would draw hearts; sign her name; anything to dirty up the windows with her fingerprints.

When Evelyn had been about eight, she had melted his heart with her little glass tricks. Sherlock had checked himself in the mirror before stepping into the shower (still clothed in a towel around his hips) and Evelyn had caught him.

“What are you doing?” She asked playfully, her hands clasped behind her back as her feet twisted against the tile.

Sherlock looked at her and smiled, “Just calculating exactly how long it will take for my eyes to lose their brilliance and dull in color. And you?”

She shifted on her heels and leaned up against the doorframe, “Brilliance doesn’t dull, Dad. Not when you’re as smart as you are.”

He smiled earnestly then and scooped her up into his arms hugging her to his chest, “How did you get so clever?”

She kissed his cheek and hugged him back, “I listen to you, Dad.”

His heart burned with affection as he placed her back down on the tile and shooed her out of the bathroom, “Now go on with all that sentimental nonsense. I’ll be out in a bit.”

She leaned forward and hugged his waist, “Just because it’s sentiment, doesn’t mean it isn’t true, Dad!” She then skittered out into the sitting room and Sherlock shut the door to take his shower.

Midway between washing the shampoo out of his hair, he heard the door creak open but decided not to question the intruder, thinking it would just be John grabbing something from the medicine cabinet. He waited a moment before poking his head out of the curtain to find that the trespasser had vanished and slowly turned off the water before stepping carefully out onto the tile. He toweled his hair dry, and then wrapped it around his hips before going to the mirror to shave. As he did, he found the condensation disturbed where little fingers had left a message:

_I love you, Dad!_

_Brilliant or dull._

The words were encased in a clumsy heart that stained the mirror with her finger’s oil. His stomach was filled with butterflies and his heart soared as he read the messy handwriting on the glass and his bit his knuckle to control his emotions. His bright blue eyes creased with happiness and sentiment and he pulled the lid down on the commode to sit on it and think.

He had never been exposed to such raw and innocent affections and it made his heart melt within him. He could feel his throat constrict with emotion as he glanced back up at it again and he smiled from ear to ear.

“You all right?”

John’s concerned voice startled Sherlock as he glanced back up to the mirror, motioning for John to do the same. The sandy-haired man walked closer in order to decipher the chicken-scratch, but smiled as he finally read it. “She’ll make a decent romantic one day, I think,” he teased as he looked back at Sherlock.

The detective’s eyes glistened and his nose had taken on a red tinge completely unrelated to the steam that was still lingering in the bathroom. His bottom lip quivered against his finger and John smiled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s heated bare chest. “Alright, I get it. You don’t have to say anything.”

Sherlock rubbed his face in the crook of John’s neck and John could feel a dampness that he chocked up to the taller man’s dripping hair. He could feel Sherlock’s brow tighten as he wrapped his long arms around him, gripping tightly at his jumper.

John cocked an eyebrow at his husband, “God, sentiment is absolutely _dreadful_ , isn’t it?” Sarcasm dripped from his words as Sherlock smiled into his neck. His rough voice barked softly as he chuckled into the warm skin, “Oh, shut up.”

_Surely then John should have discovered how intensely you could feel, right? He knows you- apathetic façade and all,_ his mind interrupted, snapping him back into reality.

Sherlock frowned at the cab’s glass window as his mind travelled back to John lying on the carpet, staring at him in disbelief as they fought; the words cutting deep into his subconscious again. The problem was exactly that. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t experience emotions. It was that, like everything else he experienced, he experienced them _severely_.

He had learned at a young age how terribly his heart ached with sentiment and decided to follow in his older brother’s footsteps: building walls and façades that alluded to his uncaring nature. Caring is not an advantage, as it were, and he decided when Redbeard passed away that not feeling was exponentially better than hurting, because he hurt for _everyone._ Sherlock’s deductions weren’t ever just what the person exuded at face value. He could tell by the way they creased their eyes, the way they held their books, exactly how cracked they were inside. His logic tore away the masks that the population donned every day. He could _see_ their pain; he could _feel_ their brokenness. For the longest time, that had damaged him. At a point, he eventually chose to ignore it, claiming ignorance of the importance of sentiment. After all, if one tells themselves a lie enough, it becomes the truth. He let the world think that it was just his addictive personality that brought him to the needle, but if he were to be honest with himself, he knew it was not only to dull the monotony that was the world; it was also to numb the aching heartbreak that he experienced vicariously.

His large hand unconsciously rubbed against his chest, his fingertips metaphorically mortaring bricks back around his cardiac muscle. His cheeks warmed and he sighed, his stern voice whispering as he spoke to his disappearing heart on the window.

“I’m not a _machine_ …”

 

***

 

“Son of a bitch!”

John groaned, nostrils flaring, as he tossed a book against the Victorian wallpaper in frustration; the encyclopedia making a small dent on the spray-painted smiling face on the wall.

His hands ripped through his short hair and covered his face as he flopped onto his chair, vexed. He dragged his fingers down his cheeks, groaning in defeat, then he winced as he stomped his damaged feet against the floor.

He would have consumed an entire package of soap if it would clean out his mouth from what he had just said. He knew better than anyone else how important sentiment was to Sherlock Holmes and instead of encouraging it, he had successfully punished him for it and it felt like _shit._

“Jesus…” he moaned into his palms, his ears still burning from the episode. He tenderly limped into the bathroom and turned on the bath, wetting a flannel to wash his feet clean of blood. The water filled with red as he washed out the rag and he sighed. Many a time had he seen the crimson liquid of life, but never had he seen his daughter’s in such magnitude. Scraped knees and paper cuts were one thing, but to watch Evelyn slide off the roof, every shingle slicing into her pale skin, and into oblivion sent an empty feeling into the pit of his stomach that only intensified with every moment lingering on it.

He carefully patted his feet dry and drained the clouded water, watching it as it sickly whirlpooled down the drain. He padded across the tile, and reached for the medicine cabinet, pulling wrap and gauze down and proceeding to care for the damaged skin.

“How the hell is Sherlock _walking_?” He asked the empty room incredulously. His husband’s tolerance of pain was definitely nothing to scoff at, but it did give the illusion of inhuman strength at times: including when he walked on bleeding feet across all of London.

He stood on his bandaged feet and scowled at the pain, but found it bearable, so he replaced the medical gear and shut the mirror, studying his face critically. Worry lines tattooed his weathered skin, and age had taken its toll on his perpetual scowl, ironing the wrinkles into his face.

“You bloody idiot,” he chastised himself, his hand covering his reflection in the mirror. He collected his thoughts and walked back into the sitting room, his words echoing in his head as he looked at the carpet.

“ _You bloody machine!”_

_“This is your fault!”_

_“It’s your fucking fix, Sherlock!”_

“ _You bloody machine!”_ rang an extra few times just for principle.

 

He had pushed Sherlock to the breaking point and he knew it. He kicked the air out of frustration and glanced at the door. Sherlock would have let him know if something had gone awry with Evelyn, but he needed to make sure. He _needed_ to see her breathing again. He knew that her limp body was just another pawn that his subconscious would use to terrorize him at night, so he _needed_ the memory that it wasn’t true to comfort him when he’d inevitably wake again.

He slowly slipped into and tied his shoes and grabbed his rain jacked from the wall. He stepped carefully down the stairs and stood in the rain hailing a cab with a semi-permanent scowl on his face. His stomach sank as he thought about seeing Sherlock again in the hospital, or at least he assumed he would. Sherlock had become a tad more predictable in his age, but he had been known to throw John for a loop every blue moon.

He watched as a few raindrops slid down the window, racing with gravity on their side as he sighed into his hands.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I really, _really_ am.”

 

***

 

“Right this way, Mr. Holmes.”

The nurse guided the tall man in a black trench coat down the halls and towards the little girl’s room, smiling and chatting with him about the rain and the hospital food, and just about any other topic that would get him to speak. Without being prompted, he conversed cheerfully and held her hand in his chilled ones before she left.

As she walked down the hall, he poked his head out to check is any other unwanted eyes had followed him and shut the door, smiling wryly as he did. He turned the lock with a twitch of his fingers and wandered over to the bed, nosily pulling over a chair to the sleeping child’s side.

“Evelyn,” his sickly sweet voice hummed, “Evelyn, wake up.” He leaned forward and patted her cheeks with both hands; his palms leaving pink marks as he smacked her a little too hard to be considered comfortable.

She stirred and her eyebrows furrowed as she searched for consciousness behind her eyelids.

“D-daddy?” Her voice cracked as she tried to speak, and only whispers and mumbles made their ways out of her throat.

The man grinned, baring his teeth, and drew his face near hers, “Not quite, _doll_.”

Her heart meter began to beep to the tempo of a cheerful march as she opened her eyes and found a man very much _not_ her father peering down at her, eyes gleaming and teeth bared.

“What do you _want_ with me?” Her frail voice cried, sobs filling her throat as tears threatened to fall down her cheeks.

“Honey, I’ve already told you!” He said, drawing his finger to trace her cheekbone, catching a tear as it escaped down her cheek. He placed his fingertip to his lip, her tear being sucked away by his vile tongue as he grinned. “I just came by to let you in on a little secret.”

He leaned closer towards the girl and she recoiled into the mattress, half-debating on screaming for help, and half-knowing that her voice wouldn’t allow her to. Thus, she would have to sit there and take whatever this man wanted to give her.

“W-what?” she choked, eyes peering directly into the man at her bedside’s.

His breath covered her face in heat as he spoke, the closeness curdling her stomach, “This game… It’s not over… It’s only half-time, love; just enough to keep you guessing, but not enough to scare you away.” He winked, “At least not _just_ yet.”

He leaned forward, pulling an apple from his bag. He glanced at the girl’s confusion and smiled mockingly, exposing his teeth as he bit it with vigor. He took a key from his pocket and began to etch a time-old acronym into the fruit, the girl questioning him with her expression the entire time. He eventually smiled, content with his masterpiece, and laid it on her belly, the words face her.

“I O U?” She probed, eyebrows and lips pursed in confusion. “What do you owe me?”

He grinned as his fingers went to her morphine pump and pushed it all the way to its maximum level. Her eyes fluttered, and she felt her body raise from the bed as the medicine swept through her body, making her thoughts run away from the man in front of her and out into nonsensical lands. She tried to focus on her assailant and lower the drip, but he kept his hands on it, making it impossible to reach. She felt a constriction in her chest that she couldn’t attribute solely to the man at her side, nor to the medicine rushing through her veins.

Her fingers clutched the sheets she was wrapped in, “W-what does that m-mean?”

“I’ll be back, Evelyn. Take my word.” He slipped something small and metal into her hands before he stood up and walked over to the door, turning to her just as he unlocked it, “And when I do… Honey, you’re gonna wish you had never been born.”

He slipped out as her eyes slipped shut; the morphine infiltrating her system far more than her body was designed to handle and her breathing and heart rate shallowed and slowed.

_I_

_O_

_U_

_What does that even mean?_ She asked herself before she the cool rush of unconsciousness swept over her like a blanket, drowning out any further reasoning.

 

***

 

Sherlock padded into the hospital, shivering slightly from the rain that covered his skin as he walked towards the receptionist.

“I need to know what room Evelyn Mary Watson is in.” His stern voice startled the young nurse as she jerked her head up from the book she was reading.

She pushed her glasses further up her nose with her finger, “Who are you?”

He groaned and rolled his eyes, “I’m her father, you imbecile!” He waved his hands dramatically in the air, “I’m Sherlock Holmes!”

She grimaced at his rudeness then glanced at the computer, “Erm, four-ninety-two it seems. Looks like the other Holmes is already here. Strange your name is Holmes and hers is Watson, is she adopted?” She glanced back up at him.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he ran through the possibilities, “Mycroft is here?”

She pointed a finger at the screen as she read the small print. “No, not Mycroft. Looks like Richard. Geeze, how many Holmes’s are there?”

His heart stopped as his eyes widened in alarm and his still unbandaged hands gripped the concierge table tightly, the pressure reopening some of the cuts, and leaving bloody fingerprints on the surface. Before he could stop himself, he felt his feet running towards the stairwell, his ears uncomprehending of whatever protests the front nurse was yelling.

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh God._

His mind raced as his feet screamed against the friction of his socks, the fabric unforgiving against the still-open wounds.

He raced up the stairs and down the hall, his long legs making short work of the corridor as he eyed the slightly cracked door into 492. He swung it open to find his daughter lying in her bed, head to the side, and a peaceful expression on her face.

He ran over to her checking on her pulse, breathing patterns, blood pressure, anything that could have gone amiss while whoever had posed as “Richard Holmes” could have tampered with. He glanced at the morphine drip, noticing its velocity and brought it down, Evelyn’s body tensing at the decrease in medicine. Either way, he didn’t want her to develop any addiction while lying in a hospital bed. He had first-hand knowledge of how easy it was to do.

He leaned back in the chair that was conveniently pulled up to her bed before his eyes set on the red sphere that contrasted so vibrantly with the white sheets on her small form. His heart sunk as he picked it up, turning it over hesitantly as he read the inevitable message carved into its flesh.

_I O U_

He could feel the panic bubbling in his chest, but he forced himself to breath in measured beats, his face leaning into the fabric on his daughter’s stomach.

_He’s back. He’s back. Oh God, what am I going to do? Breathe! Get a hold of yourself! Think!_

His head shot up as the only thing he could think to do raced across his brain. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and his fingers flew across the touchscreen.

 

To: Lestrade

_Pull the security tape from Princess Grace. Need reception area and room 492. Please hurry. –SH_

Sent 03:49

 

He glanced at the time and grimaced. He should have made it to the hospital sooner, but the rain caused the normally non-existent early morning traffic to still, much to his chagrin. He laid his phone on the bed and pushed Evelyn’s still damp curls from her face, rubbing his thumb against her forehead.

“Who did this to you?” He questioned the sleeping child, his voice cracking with sentiment as his mind wandered back to seeing her on the rood, covered with blood and out of her wits, screaming at him as if her were some terrible monster. “Please come back to me.” He rubbed at her forehead again with his large hand and smeared a bit of his own blood on her. He gasped in shock as he ran to the sink a few meters away and washed his hands of the offending substance. He looked around the hospital room and spotted some gauze and medical tape sitting on an abandoned trolley in the corner of the room. He made short and crude work of wrapping his wounds and placed the supplies back on the trolley. He glanced down at his work and grimaced. It was a wonder he had ever been able to clean himself up before his military doctor had entered his life and made a habit of doing it himself. He traveled back to the sink and wet a towel to clean the blood off of her pale face.

As he dabbed the damp cloth to her, his phone pinged.

 

From: Lestrade

_What’s this about? What’s going on? –GL_

Received: 04:01

 

He typed furiously with his left hand as his right continued to wipe at Evelyn’s face.

 

To: Lestrade

_Someone tried to kill Evelyn. Do you need more explanation? –SH_

Sent: 04:02

 

His fingers had barely left the piece of technology before it pinged again.

 

From: Lestrade

_Absolutely not. We’ll find him Sherlock. I’ll kill him myself if he lays another hand on her. –GL_

Received: 04:03

 

Sherlock cracked a small smile and placed his phone back into his pocket. Now all there was to do was to wait. Wait for Evelyn to wake up and explain what had happened to her. Wait for John to inevitably show up, angry and haughty as ever. Wait to see what this pseudo-Moriarty had in plan for him and his family.

Sherlock sighed into his bandaged palm as Evelyn began to stir. He cupped her cheek in his hand and spoke softly.

“It’s okay Evelyn. I’m right here.”

Her faced grimaced and she whimpered as her hands gripped against the fabric that was unfortunate enough to be placed under her bandaged hands. Her mouth gaped open as she gasped and whined at whatever visions were dancing in front of her eyes, and Sherlock rubbed her cheek fervently, listening to the heart meter’s accelerando.

“No, no, little bird. It’s all right. I’m right here. I’ll protect you.”

He picked up her left hand and placed the back of her fingers on his throat. Her fingers twitched as his baritone filled the otherwise empty room. His natural vibrato hummed as he sang words she had loved all her life.

_“Roads go ever, ever on,_ _over rock and under tree;_ _by caves where never sun has shone; by streams that never find the sea.”_ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the still fingers, her head tossing to the side out of reflex, _“Over snow by winter sown,_ _and through the merry flowers of June;_ _over grass and over stone,_ _and under mountains in the moon.”_

Tolkien’s words spilled from his lips as her brow relaxed, and her expression softened. She whimpered lightly, gripping his fingers in hers, but made no effort to wake.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his masculine hand engulfing her miniature one, as he kept humming the next few lines, ensuring her tranquility.

 

***

 

John padded towards Room 492 apprehensively. He was terrified of seeing his only daughter on a hospital bed and was equally frightened of Sherlock’s reaction towards him (even more frightening was the potential non-reaction).

He toed gently towards the door and leaned against the frame listening to the deep, sweet voice that hung in the air.

“ _Yet feet that wandering have gone_ , _turn at last to home afar…”_

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall outside the door frame, as he remembered the first time he had heard Sherlock’s singing voice all those years ago.

_“Eyes that fire and sword have seen_ _and horror in the halls of stone…”_

 

Ever since then, Sherlock’s melodies had only become more practiced and more beautiful, and although John hated to know that Evelyn was upset, he also loved the chance to hear his husband’s voice again.

“ _Look at last on meadows green,_ _and trees and hills they long have known.”_

He had known that song very well. The main character in his daughter’s favorite book sang it as he headed home from his grand adventure. He sang of all the troubles they had encountered and also of how much they had gained by the time they had made it home. It vaguely made him think of himself as he came home from Afghanistan. If he hadn’t been shot, he may not have developed the recurring nightmares he was plagued with. But in the same turn of the hand, he may have never met Sherlock Holmes, fell in love with him, lost him, got him back from the dead, or raised his late wife’s daughter with him had that bullet not penetrated his chest.

“I know you’re standing there.”

John jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s speaking voice and shyly stepped into the hospital room, eyes cast towards the ground.

“Hey,” John mumbled, his fingers twiddling nervously in front of him.

“Hello.” Sherlock’s curt and apathetic tone caused John to flinch.

He stepped light towards Evelyn’s sleeping body, walking to the side of the bed not already occupied by Sherlock, and sighed as he placed his hand on her forehead, feeling the warmth that still resided in her skin.

“At least she’s safe now,” John added, trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock’s dark expression only dimmed as he tossed the carved fruit at John, who although wasn’t expecting, caught it midair, “Are you so sure of that?”

John turned it over in his hands and gasped as he read the three letters on it, “How did he-? I don’t understand!”

Sherlock spoke without raising his gaze from Evelyn, “He made it in here before I did. I don’t know what he did, nor what he said to her, but I intend to find out.”

John glanced back at his husband. Sherlock’s stern gaze rested on their daughter and his jaw was set in a way that exuded determination and a lust for revenge. John shifted on his feet and stammered.

“Sherlock, I-”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice cut his off like a whip and the room was filled with silence again.

John startled and shook himself back into action, “Sherlock, please. I’m-”

Sherlock glared at John, looking at him for the first time since he had walked in. His piercing stare pinned John where he stood as Sherlock’s eyes studied his body. “ _Et iratus_ _est honestum_.”

John blinked profusely as he tried to piece together the dead language, “What?”

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at John’s incompetence, “‘In anger there is honesty.’ You don’t need to apologize for your true sentiments, John. I rarely do.”

John raised his hands, visually placing words in front of him as he pulled what little he remembered of the mandatory Latin he learned in boarding school, “ _Et iratus_ _…_ _est mendacium_ …?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his husband’s attempt and scoffed, “Is that so?” His hand left his daughter’s and steepled under his chin. “Why do you say that anger inspires lies instead of the truth?”

John half-smiled at his successful translation and half-grimaced as he felt Sherlock’s stare on his skin, “I was angry Sherlock. I didn’t mean what I said and you should know that. I-” His words caught in his throat as he struggled to find the appropriate apology. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean anything that came out of my mouth.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pursed then curved accusingly, “Anger does not morph personalities, John; it only enhances them. In anger we speak exactly what is on our mind because we don’t feel the need to mask it with pleasantries.”

John couldn’t argue that Sherlock was wrong in most cases, but this time he _had_ to win; _had_ to show Sherlock he was being honest _now_ , not _then_. “Yeah, but when we’re scared we also say anything to hurt our enemy.” ( _Wrong choice of words.)_

Sherlock didn’t miss the mistake and his eyes directed themselves at John immediately, “ _Enemy_?” He repeated furiously, “ _That’s_ how you see me?” He could feel the breath escape his lips as his heart sank into his gut.

John flustered and ran his fingers through his hair nervously, “No! No, that’s not what I meant! Ugh fuck!” He buried his face in his hands and moaned at his own ineptitude.

Sherlock stood to his feet, showing his true height to John who seemed overcome by the shadow he cast, “I had hoped that you would have overcome your juvenile fear of me over the years but apparently I was misled when you said you trusted me.”

John tore his hands away from his face and they turned to fists at his side, “I’m not _afraid_ of you, Sherlock! Why the hell would you think that? Do you think I would have married you if I was _afraid_ of you? Do you think I would have let you around my child if I had _any_ concern for her wellbeing in your hands?”

Sherlock’s lip curled, “Sociopaths do have a tendency to weasel their way into people’s lives, you know. You didn’t even know what you were up against, how could you have stopped me?”

John’s pulse thrummed in his ears, “Now you stop it right there. See? You’re spouting lies to hurt me now, just like I did with you earlier. You don’t mean that any more than I did what I said.”

Sherlock narrowed, studying John’s body language, “And how would you know that?”

“Because I know _you!_ ” He hollered, thrusting his hands in Sherlock’s direction. “I know your favorite tea; I know what you look like when you cry; I know how your skin feels when you wake up in the morning. I know how you light up when you hear Evelyn singing. I. Know. You. Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s body stiffened as he straightened himself and he plucked at his still-damp coat, “Excuse me.” He turned swiftly and headed towards the door.

John hopped to his side and grabbed his pale wrist in a vice-like grip, “No you don’t!”

Sherlock didn’t turn to John, but jerked at his wrist, his legs pinned to the ground where he stood, “Let go of me, John.”

John instead, pulled Sherlock towards him and into the tightest embrace he had wrapped him in since he had returned from the Fall. “No. I’m not letting go, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I know what I said what wrong and spiteful and mean and I didn’t mean it. Not a word.” He rubbed his face into Sherlock’s sternum. “You’re the most _human_ person I’ve ever met, Sherlock. I’m sorry if I made you question that about yourself. I really, _truly_ am.”

Sherlock’s stiff body was crushed against John to the point where he either had to bend forward to hug John back, or suffocate. He chose the former and slowly wrapped his arms around John’s torso. He rested his chin against John’s head and he could feel the doctor relax against him. He placed a hand on the nape of John’s neck and the sandy-haired doctor winced.

“Who did your wrapping?” He questioned, pulling away from Sherlock to examine the shoddy bandage-work.

Sherlock smiled a bit and exposed both of his hands, “Obviously no one _actually_ trained in any medical profession.”

John tsked him lightly and set about looking for supplies, “Have you bandaged your feet that terribly, too?”

Sherlock scowled as he was reminded about his aching feet, “Not particularly… Or at all…”

John rolled his eyes and motioned for the bathroom across the room, “Go on in there and take all of that off. I need to clean it up before you get your stubborn-self infected. Then I’ll _never_ hear the end of it.”

Sherlock made for the door, but turned back towards John who had found the abandoned medical trolley, “What about Evelyn?”

John glanced back at their daughter and frowned, “Well, there’s not much we can do until she wakes up, so we might as well get ourselves taken care of. We’ll be right here when she wake up.”

Sherlock nodded and stared back at their daughter lying still on the hospital bed. Her face was pursed in sleep against her pillow and the bandages that covered her body were testaments to her incredibly tumultuous night. He paced back towards her and kissed her forehead.

“Please remember everything you can, Evelyn. I won’t rest until this bastard’s been dealt with. I promise.”

John turned at Sherlock’s words and his eyes followed him into the bathroom. John knew at that moment that there was no one on Earth who he would hate to be more than this mystery man.

Sherlock Holmes had made his target known and John knew there was no stopping his husband when he noticed that particular sheen in his brilliant blue eyes.


	8. Not Him

“Hello?”

Evelyn’s bell-toned voice echoed in the dark surroundings. It seemed that nothing but her occupied the vast space.

“ _Hello_! Is there anyone out-?”

Her voice caught in her throat and she looked down as her feet squished in her shoes. She flashed a torch down at them and squealed when she saw the crimson coating her runners.

“Oh my God!” She flashed the torch around finding the floor covered in pools of the life-sustaining liquid. Her scream alerted a figure in the dark that growled and pattered towards her.

Her shaking hands sent the light beaming in every direction, searching for the cause of the noise but only found a perpetual darkness that enveloped her. The creature growled and snarled as its claws ticked against the hard floor, sliding through the thick liquid coating the surface.

“You stay back! I mean it! I’ll- I’ll- I’ll kill you!” Her false bravado quivered with fear as she turned in every direction. A pulsing cadence suddenly filled the room: the sickly thrum of a dying heartbeat.

With every beat, she could hear the creature close the distance; snarling with exposed teeth she couldn’t yet see. She paced backwards, attempting to find a wall to lean against and eventually was successful. Her back bumped against the hard fixture and her hands gripped at it, searching for a way out. The curvature of the bricks was unfamiliar, so she turned the torch towards them, regrettably. She gasped and fell back away from it, hearing the splash of blood that now coated her clothes. There were no bricks that mortared the wall; only skulls pressed together in lines that made for easy stacking. The sizes ranged: obviously adult male heads were rampant on the wall and made up for a majority of the material, but there were also the occasional small ones that Evelyn couldn’t have assumed were any older than a few years of age. Her eyes wet with tears as she pushed herself away from the wall and towards the sounds of the growling beast in the darkness.

Her heart burned and she looked down to find her chest glowing in the gloom. Her ribs flickered with flames that lay dormant under her skin and she clutched at her torso gasping for air that only tasted like smoke.

The creature rounded towards her and pinned her to the ground, bared teeth only inches from her face. Blood sprayed in every direction as she struggled against its massive weight and she could feel the crimson staining her face.

“Let go of me!” Her scream only enticed the beast to snarl louder so as to cover it up.

At this proximity, her glowing chest illuminated the large wolf-looking creature’s face and brought horror to the young girl’s heart. Its face had been beaten severely: permanent scars freckled its figure. Broken teeth threatened her as it brought its face down to hers. It snarled more violently and saliva dripped onto her face, burning like acid as it came into contact with her skin. She screamed from the sting and the monster growled at her, grinning.

“ _I’ll be back! I’ll be back!”_ Its raspy growl filled the ever-stretching space with discordance and smoke.

She could feel its claws digging into her shoulder and she struggled profusely to get away. The beast smiled, every sharp tooth glistening against the illumination from her chest and opened its mouth to consume her body.

She screamed and was engulfed in heat and fear.

 

***

 

“Jesus, Evelyn! You’re all right! Relax!” John hollered as he and his husband restrained the girl to the bed, gripping her shoulders to the mattress.

The little girl tossed and fought them in her sleep, whimpering small screams at her imaginary assailant and her feet kicking out underneath the fabric that lay over her.

The heart meter beeped precariously high and a nurse was standing by in case the episode went sour. Evelyn’s head lolled to either side as she tried to shy away from whatever monster was attacking her in her nightmares.

Sherlock removed himself from her shoulders and wrapped his warm hands around her cheeks, holding her face still. His deep voice cracked from the strain, “Evelyn! Wake up! Please, love, _wake up_!”

As if by command, the twelve-year-old’s eyes shot open and she panicked at the sight of her father. She screamed as tried to push herself farther into the hospital bed, her fingers clawing out at the two men that held her down. Her right hand made contact with Sherlock’s cheek, and the nails that had been broken by the roof shingles sliced into his flesh. He gasped but didn’t move, and kept his hands on her face.

“Evelyn! Look! Evelyn, whatever you’re seeing _isn’t_ real! We’re right here! Look!”

Her eyes darted around the room in panic as she tried to get control over her frightened mind. Her gaze bounced back and forth between her two fathers and she began to cry as her breath accelerated. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck, ignorant to the IV’s that were stuck in her arms.

“ _Dad!”_ She gasped into his shoulder, her body convulsing with sobs of terror and pain.

Sherlock wrapped his bandaged hands around her, rubbing reassuringly on her back. “It’s okay, Evelyn. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Just breathe.”

The nurse at this point left the family alone in the room with a quick shuffle of feet and passage through the hospital door. Evelyn clutched at his jacket and gripped him as if she were afraid that if she let him go, her nightmares would come back to life. She closed her eyes against the fabric of his coat, and as she did, the visions of the beast tattooed her mind and she gripped at him even tighter.

She whimpered in fear as John placed his hand on her head, flattening the locks that sprung out in every way.

Sherlock glanced at John, worried and began to hum.

“ _Oh hush thee, my baby. The night is behind us and black are the waters that sparkled so green. The moon o'er the combers looks downward to find us at rest in the hollows that rustle between.”_

His daughter seemed to settle at the familiar Whitacre tune, and her sobs lightened into hiccups as he continued to hum without lyrics into her golden curls.

“You’re all right, little lark. We’re right here.”

John leaned forward to press a kiss into her curls, and placed his hand at the nape of her neck, “We love you, Evelyn. We’ll keep you safe.”

She clutched at Sherlock’s chest at the words and sobbed more profusely into his scarf. Her crushed esophagus sounded utterly pitiful in the otherwise silent room and every word hurt. “Not Jim! It’s _not_ Jim!” She croaked, her tears staining the worn blue scarf tied around Sherlock’s neck.

He peaked at her words and pulled her away from his body to study her face. “What do you mean, Evelyn? Who’s not Jim?”

Her face, still twisted in tears, looked him in the eye as she began to pant, her mouth forming words that wouldn’t escape her lips.

Sherlock glanced darkly at John and then back to Evelyn as she placed her hand on his still bleeding cheek, pulling her damp finger back to show Sherlock, her expression worried.

“Oh it’s nothing, love; just a scratch. I think if we’re going to be concerned about the state of anyone here, it would be you.” He smiled reassuringly as he wrapped her hand in his, squeezing gently.

John seemed visibly relieved, but raised a hand to her cheek, wiping away the tears that were still falling from her bloodshot navy eyes. “Okay, Evelyn. It’s not Jim. We understand. Are you up to telling us about what happened?”

She furrowed her brow as she pulled together the memories and nodded as she leaned back into her bed, sniffling.

“H-he… He… _God_ …” She covered her face in her bandaged hands as sobs now born of frustration began. The tightness in her throat constricted her voice from freedom and she was furious.

“It’s alright, love. You can tell us later. We’ll let you-”

“No!” Her cracked voice sounded alien to her and she looked at Sherlock pleading with her eyes. She swallowed the lumps in her throat before trying again, her fingers still covering a majority of her face.

“Not Jim… Not _Jim_!” She finally mustered, her head shaking at the memories of his face.

John leaned forward, placing a warm hand on her knee, “Alright, we got that part, Evelyn. It’s not Jim, but who is it?”

She swallowed fervently trying to muster the courage to say the words but failed miserably before her hands tapped her forehead and then slammed against her other hand.

She repeated the motion over and over again, her expression focused and pleading for understanding: plucking at her forehead, then placing her index fingers together pointed towards Sherlock.

John glanced over at him in confusion as Sherlock watched her, perplexed. He slowly brought his own large hand to his temple and pulled away in the air, then placed his fingers together, mimicking her actions. He repeated it, his gaze staring down into the fabric; his mind painting his mind palace on the white sheets.

He ran into the room that contained communication and he searched through appropriate hand signals. (He had an entire encyclopedia on not-so-acceptable ones.) He flipped through the pages finding the first symbol: Man.

“Man.” He repeated aloud to John’s astonishment. Sherlock closed his eyes again, placing his fingers together and in his mind flipping the pages until he found his next subject: Sibling.

“Sibling?” Sherlock opened his eyes in astonishment. “Male sibling! John, it’s his brother!” He cupped the young girl’s face in his hands, beaming at her. “You brilliant girl! Tell me more!”

She smiled slightly; her throat still did not allow for full speech, so she resorted to her hands.

She held her left finger pointed straight for the roof and her right circled around it twice. She repeated the motions, her bottom lip quivering in frustration.

Sherlock studied her and copied the motions, piecing together the signs, speaking his thoughts aloud.

“Orbit, hour, no… It’s like spindling a thread… with a needle! Needle! Alright good girl, Evelyn. Now what was in it?”

She then carefully snapped her fingers (not actually making any sounds as her fingertips patted against the bandages) then lightly tapped her thigh.

“What?” He questioned her. He actually recognized that sign on cue: Dog. Mycroft had shown it to him as a child when he wanted to alert him to Redbeard’s needs.

“Dog? Evelyn that doesn’t make any-” His mouth dropped in realization and he brought his hands to his cheeks. “John! It’s not dog; it’s _hound_. Moriarty got his hands on the H.O.U.N.D. formula and made it into an injection. _That’s_ why she was seeing things and her heart reacted so violently! That makes _perfect_ sense!”

John frowned then peered back at their daughter, “Good job; you’re doing really well, Evelyn. Now what did he want?”

She placed her hands palm-up on her lap and wiggled her fingers in the air, slightly bouncing her hands at opposing intervals, her expression exhibiting concern.

Sherlock took a moment to establish the connection, “Hell… Fire… Burn…”

She then placed a trembling hand to her forehead, thumb touching her skin and the other fingers splaying out in front of her.

Sherlock swallowed, knowingly, “Father… Dad…”

Tears began to silently fall back down her face as she tapped delicately on Sherlock’s chest.

His voice was dark, “Heart… He wants to burn my heart.”

John grimaced, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder reassuringly. “Alright, Eevee. Did he say why?”

Her face turned to a scowl as she brought her hands into fists, the forefingers pulled out but bent forward and away from the other fingers and knocked them against each other. Again. And Again.

Sherlock’s expression fell as he released the breath in his lungs. “Revenge…”

She patted his wrist to get his attention as he looked down into the fabric of her bed. As he glanced up, she placed two thumbs up hands in front of her, left on top of the right. She then threw the left over her shoulder, swallowing to exhibit fear.

Sherlock searched for the answer in her face, finally finding it and crinkling his nose, “Threat… Who is he threatening?”

She pointed her fingers away from her then towards her, then placing her right hand on her chest. She repeated the sequence of motions until Sherlock’s face dropped into his palms.

“Sherlock?” John’s concerned voice broke the silence filling the room.

“The threat,” Sherlock spoke into his palms, the skin muffling the words, “is that he will come back for her.” He drug his fingers down, digging into his cheeks and steepled them under his chin. He looked back at John eyes glistening. “Moment?”

John nodded in understanding, patting his daughter’s thigh before following Sherlock out of the door. “It’s all right, love. No one can hurt you here. We’ll be right outside.”

Sherlock leaned up against the wall a few meters from the hospital room, ensuring that he was not within earshot of their daughter and as John stepped out, he walked over to him and rested his head against Sherlock’s chest. “What is it? What’s bothering you?”

Sherlock sighed as he wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders. “I’m no longer in the line of fire, John, and neither are you. _She is._ ” He waved a hand towards Room 492. “He’s using her the same way Moriarty used _you_. He knows he can’t hurt me by my own person since my heart doesn’t actually reside in my chest.” He stared across the way into the blank white wall opposite them. He waved his hands in the air once towards the door and then once at John. “It walks around in plain sight covered by two heads of golden hair.”

John half-smiled into Sherlock’s chest, “Hey now. It’s all right. If you think he won’t come after me, it’s only Evelyn we need to worry about now.” He pushed farther into Sherlock’s chest as he wrapped his arms around him. “Do you think he’ll make good on his word?”

The detective stiffened, “Absolutely. But I don’t think it will be any time soon.” He ran his fingers through his hair, “It will be when we’re at our weakest that he’ll decide to strike. Until then, we need to prepare ourselves.”

John nodded and stood back away from his husband, his hands plucking at the detective’s jacket, “Into battle then.” John then patted Sherlock’s arm and smiled, “So, did you teach her that? Those hand signs?”

Sherlock wiped at his face, thankful for the change of subject, and smiled back, “No, not at all. I’ve only seen it once before while I was in America. It’s called Sign Language. Deaf communities use it to communicate. I think it’s a rather handy talent,” he smirked at the unintentional pun, “but I have no idea where she leaned it.”

John shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned at the ground, “Why am I not surprised?” He looked back up to his husband reassuringly. “She’s a sharp one, Sherlock. I think she’ll be fine.”

He nodded shortly, then headed back into the room, John tagging not far behind, and found Evelyn toying with something in her hand.

“What is that?” He asked, eyes narrowed and automatically concerned.

She placed it on her lap and made fists with her hands, her forefingers making ninety degree angles away from the other fingers and she bounced them twice away from her torso.

Sherlock ran through his mind palace a moment before finding the translation. “Gift? A gift from Moriarty?” His stomach felt cold at the thought of the potential danger it might possess.

She nodded numbly, picking the metal key back into her hands.

The metal had been worn with age; its handle filled with elegant curves and fleurs that gave it a rather Victorian-esque image. At the end of the short skeleton key was a single square tooth with a nick in the center of it. The weathered metal felt smooth to the touch and it cooled her burning hands. _A rather odd present from someone who just attempted to kill you in front of your parents_ , she thought.

“Let me see it,” Sherlock demanded, his palm outstretched in front of her. She willingly relinquished it to her father and studied his face as he examined the bit of metal.

He turned it over in his hands, fingers memorizing every curve and twist in the material before handing it back to his daughter, “It’s just an old skeleton key. Probably from the late 1800’s, English made, was cleaned recently. Does it mean anything to you?”

She flicked her forefinger and middle finger against her thumb: “No.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, perplexed and placed his thumb against his lips, “Me either.”

John picked it from Evelyn’s hands and examined it further, “Well it’s too large to belong to any kind of jewelry or safekeeping box. Maybe it’s to a cabinet or wardrobe or something.”

The young girl smirked and spelled out with her fingers: N-A-R-N-I-A.

Sherlock, being the only who could read it, laughed earnestly at her redeveloping humor, “Maybe that’s his big plan, little lark. I can’t imagine a trip to Narnia wouldn’t be exciting.”

John quirked a half-smile and gently pushed the blonde curls from her face as her eyelids began to weigh down on her face, “Get some rest, sweetheart. We’ll be right here when you wake up. Promise.”

She held out a wrapped pinky expectantly, and he took it lovingly in his, pressing a kiss to his thumb to seal the contract.

“Goodnight, love,” was the last thing she heard as she drifted off into much needed sleep.

 

***

 

“Are you sure you can handle her? She’s not a baby anymore, Sherlock.”

John rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as the detective picked their daughter from the ground and into his arms.

“How else do you expect her to get up the stairs, John? _I’m_ not yet an old man- unlike _you_.” He teased, winking at the girl in his embrace.

She smiled and crinkled her nose at the jest. She lightly swatted at Sherlock’s chest and he grimaced at her.

“You can’t honestly tell me you’re on the side of the elderly oppression!” His eyes narrowed at her as he smiled maliciously. “Well, if I’m so old, my strength might give out unexpectedly… and I might _drop you_!” He suddenly lowered his arms, her weight bouncing in the air as she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck and squeaked, swatting him again playfully.

John fumed as he open and shut the door around his family, “I’m still not too old to beat your arse, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned and cocked an eyebrow at him, “Are you propositioning in front of our daughter?”

John and Evelyn’s fair faces flushed dramatically much to Sherlock’s amusement and he carried on stepping up the stairs, Evelyn’s face cowering in his scarf, blanching the words from her memory.

Evelyn cracked open the door allowing them in and they looked upon the flat. Knowing her fathers hadn’t left the hospital since she had been admitted, she cocked an eyebrow in question towards Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson likes to clean when she’s worried,” he said plainly, shrugging. “She’s had quite a bit of practice at getting blood out of carpets.”

As if she had been beckoned, Mrs. Hudson flitted up the stairs and into the flat; her ancient weathered hands fussing over Evelyn’s still bandaged cheek as she sat in John’s chair near the fireplace.

“Oh dear! I’ve been so worried! It’s so nice to see you back home! Can I get you anything, dear? Are you hungry? Ah! A Cuppa! A nice Cuppa will do you well.” Without waiting for confirmation, she fluttered back down the stairs and into her kitchen, presumably making far more than just _a_ cup of tea.

She widened her eyes and raised her brows at her fathers and they smirked back at her.

John raised his voice first, “Well _you’re_ the one who climbed up on the roof. You have to deal with the _oh so unpleasant_ consequences!”

Sherlock gently smacked his arm pursing his lips. He padded gently to John’s chair and placed his hand on her cheek. “Are you feeling alright, love?”

She nodded and smiled, pulling her knees to her chest and turning on her side towards the fireplace. She repeated her sign for “fire” and smiled affectionately at Sherlock.

He glanced at John and the doctor shrugged, “Yeah, why not?”

By the time Mrs. Hudson had meandered back into the flat, a hearty fire was burning in the hearth; its warmth filling the room with comfort and familiarity.

“If I ever find out what _monster_ hurt my little dove, I will give him a stern lesson in manners!” Her sweet voice mirrored the atmosphere in the flat, only tinged with a tad of sass.

She walked over to the young girl slowly sipping on her tea and smiled, brushing the hair from her face, “Dear, you’re going to need to cut this hair soon! These boys don’t know anything about ladies’ appearances, do they?”

Evelyn smiled into her cup and nodded at the grandmotherly figure. John shrugged up against Sherlock on the couch, “Her hair looks fine, Mrs. Hudson! You’re gonna give her a complex!”

She lifted a few strands of the golden locks and pointed, “Look at these ends! It’s a wonder they stay flat at all! You’re such a pretty young thing- oh!” She raised her hands up to her mouth and smiled shortly, “Dear, you look fine. I’m just- oh. It’s just nice to have you home.” She leaned forward to peck her on the cheek. “I’ll be back in the morning to pick up the dishes, just… just leave them over there.” Her voice cracked on the last phrase and she flitted out of the flat, quietly shutting the door behind her.

John sighed happily as he leaned into Sherlock’s chest, “Remember when she used to get so flustered over us?”

Sherlock smiled into his cup at the memories, wrapping his arm tighter around John’s shoulder, “It’s rather nice to have someone else to keep her attentions on.”

“All right?”

Sherlock looked down, and then back at the girl slowly falling asleep on John’s distinguished chair, “All right. Just… a little worried.”

John leaned forward and kissed his chest before standing up and picking the empty cups from the coffee table, “Don’t be. We’ll take this one day at a time, isn’t that it?”

Sherlock smiled at the long-forgotten line, “Yes, I suppose so. It’s just… nerve-wracking? I just don’t want her to get hurt because of me.” He stared into the bandaged hands in his lap. He heard a clink of china in the sink and then found John’s hands wrapping around his.

“Don’t think of it like that. Instead of being afraid for her, we’re going to have to prepare her for what’s inevitable. We can’t just lock her in a tower and hope the dragon doesn’t get her; we’re going to have to teach her enough that we can trust her on her own. We won’t be around forever, you know.”

Sherlock pouted and shrugged his shoulders, “Inconvenient.”

The doctor shook his head and nodded at the now lightly-snoring Evelyn near the fireplace, “Why don’t you take her upstairs. She’ll get sore if she sleeps like that.”

Sherlock followed his gaze and half-smiled, getting up as John padded back into the kitchen.

The tall man silently crept to the chair and wrapped an arm around his daughter’s back, “Come on, Evelyn. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She blinked half-awake, shocked at the contact and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck like a small child. He leaned farther forward and wrapped his other arm around her bent legs and picked her up gracefully. John was right. She wasn’t a baby anymore and he would probably regret it in the morning, but for the moment Sherlock just wanted to hold her in his arms and reassure himself that she was all right.

“John?”

The sandy-haired man turned from the sink and smiled at the detective and the girl, “Yeah?”

“I’m going to stay with her tonight, all right?”

He nodded and turned back to Mrs. Hudson’s dishes, “I’ll join you up there in a bit.”

Sherlock smiled and quietly stepped up the stairs, his daughter’s arms limply hung around his shoulders as he climbed towards her room. As he opened the door awkwardly, he thanked whatever Gods there might be for Mrs. Hudson. She was indeed a saint as every bit of evidence was cleaned from the floor and Evelyn’s room was as comforting as having her in his arms.

His long legs made short the distance to the bed and he gently laid her down on it, wrapping the covers around her carefully. He brushed the hair from her closed eyes and kissed her forehead before turning around to face the chair that was positioned under the window that had twice now betrayed their family. He growled internally at the offensive pane of glass and sat in the chair, plucking the book from its cushion and holding it gently in his hand.

He opened it and began to read to himself as he heard a knock of knuckles against wood and looked up.

Evelyn’s sleepy face smiled at him and she held up her right hand: fingers splayed out, except for the middle and ring finger pointed towards her palm.

Sherlock’s chest warmed as his blue-green eyes creased in a smile. He held out his long fingers, mimicking the hand sign.

 

“I love you, too, Evelyn.”


	9. Shots and Sensibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a rather long chapter guys and gals, with a little fluff and sentimental nonsense, but hang on. It's about to get bumpy from here on out!

John Watson flung open the door to his flat and laid the bags from the store none-too-gently on the table before dropping his fists to his sides in frustration.

“The automatic cashier was victorious I take it?”

The graying detective pulled his reading glasses down his nose as his looked up at the doctor smirking.

He rolled his eyes and stood firm in his spot, his temper dissipating with every focused breath he took. “I don’t know why they can’t just employ human beings to take care of _human beings_. Those bloody machines are going to be the death of me, mark my word!”

Sherlock grinned into his book, “It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”

John furrowed his brow at the familiar quote, “Erm, Einstein, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled deeper until a soft _ratta-ratta-ratta-ratta_ followed by a small _boom_ was heard from the upstairs bedroom. The two men exchanged glances, frowning as Sherlock looked up urgently and cocked an eyebrow.

“John, where is my chemistry set?”

John opened his mouth as they heard _Shitshitshitshit_ coming down the stairs and soon after, a sandy-haired fifteen year old flew through the door, coughing and cursing and grabbing their arms.

“Bloody Hell! Come on, we’ve got to go! Daddy you’ve got to get Mrs. Hudson!”

John hesitated, glancing at Sherlock, “What’s going on?”

Evelyn cringed, but kept pulling at their arms, “If you’re going to discipline me, we need to do it outside. I may or may not have combined some very not compatible chemicals in my room…”

Sherlock cocked his eyebrows allowing Evelyn to pull him from his chair, “What did you mix?”

She smiled awkwardly, “Well I had one experiment with Potassium Chlorate and a gummy bear which was actually pretty cool. Did you know that when you heat it, it looks like a firework in a test tube? It’s brilliant! I mean, I guess that’s why they use it in fireworks. That would make sense. Regardless! That’s not the problem. I may or may not have accidently spilled my water bottle on my specimen of potassium.”

Sherlock scowled, bright blue eyes peeling open wide, “Evelyn Mary Watson! What were you thinking?”

“ _Again_!” She hollered, using her entire force to pull the two men out of the door and into the stairwell, “If we’re going to fight, let’s get out of this gas chamber first!”

Sherlock growled as he grabbed John’s wrist, dragged him down the stairs and threw the two of them outside as he went back in to retrieve the elderly woman from in front of her telly.

John clouted the teenager softly behind the ear as he pulled out his phone to call the Fire Department, “The Hell were you thinking?”

She cringed a bit, rubbing her hand at her ear, and then thrust her arms towards her room two stories up, “Well I didn’t _mean_ to blow up my room, Daddy! It was an _accident_! I wasn’t even planning to experiment with pure Potassium today!”

“Yes, Baker Street, _again_ …” John said pointedly at his daughter into the mobile as Sherlock helped Mrs. Hudson out of the door and down the few steps onto the sidewalk.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the flustered girl who still had smoke rising from her fluffed out locks, “So, Evelyn, what have we learned today?”

Evelyn lowered her gaze to the concrete, shamed, “Not to experiment in my room…”

Sherlock walked towards her and lifted her chin with a single finger, “No. We learned to keep our control substances out of the reach of menacing water bottles.” He smiled at her then frowned, “Now if your father has anything to say about it, you’re going to have to- wait. Where did you even get pure Potassium?”

She frowned shamefully and twisted her feet on the sidewalk, “I may or may not have borrowed some from school. And by borrow I mean lifted. I mean I guess if we’re confessing sins here.” She raised her eyes to find Sherlock’s crossed arms and disapproving glare. She waved her hands dramatically at the ground, “The teacher let me have it! I’m the only kid in class who even _cares_ about chemistry! He lets me experiment with things all the time!”

Sherlock bit his lip in frustration and raised his hand to spell out his anger in the air, but only clenched his fists and dropped it, “It’s one thing when he _lets_ you experiment in _class_. You can’t just take materials from the school!”

She crossed her arms and looked back at the ground, “They’re just going to waste in there. I bet half of my classmates don’t even know what number Potassium is on the Periodic Table! They’re all so dull and incompetent!”

Sherlock frowned as he heard his own words leave her mouth and dragged his hand across his face.

John padded over to stand next to his husband and daughter and glared down at her. “Three times; _three_ times this month, Evelyn! Can’t you contain yourself?”

She shot her hands in her jean pockets and looked at the ground, “I’m _sorry_! I didn’t _mean_ to! It’s just… I get restless! I need something to occupy my mind.”

John waved his arms dramatically towards the flat, “ _This_ is occupying your mind? I’m pretty sure any other person would label this as destruction of property! You had better be glad Mrs. Hudson dealt with us first!”

Sherlock shrugged at John’s incredibly accurate statement and put his hand in John’s and patted it, “What’s important is she’s safe. Now Evelyn,” He leaned towards her, “do we expect something to happen like this again anytime soon?”

She glared up at Sherlock and flushed with irritation, “No, Dad.”

He smiled and patted her cheek, “Good.” He looked around as the chemical disposal squad screamed onto the street. “Well, now that we’re out, I suppose we could make ourselves useful. I need to pick up some materials from Molly anyways, would you like to join?”

Evelyn stopped fingering with the key on a chain around her neck and smiled at Sherlock, her excitement bubbling, “ _Really_? You’re gonna let me come along?”

John coughed and turned his husband to the side, “Erm, Sherlock are you sure about that? She’s a little young to be seeing… you know…”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he pulled the housecoat from his shoulders, exposing a dark emerald silk shirt and trousers, “Evelyn has been exposed to body parts for as long as she can remember, John. I can’t imagine that exposure to entire bodies as opposed to bit and pieces will have any adverse effect on her.”

Evelyn grabbed John’s arm and tugged on it. “Please! Please, Daddy! I’ve always wanted to go!”

John chewed on his cheek as he looked at Sherlock. He held a hand towards him, trying to prove his point, “You realize this is classical conditioning, right? You’re going to reward her for setting off a dangerous chemical reaction in her room!” The tall detective shrugged and offered him no reprieve. The doctor drug his hand down his face in exasperation and sighed, “Ugh! I guess. But you listen to your father. I don’t want you getting in any more trouble. I’ll stay here and sort out this mess. I would ground you, but I have a feeling you’d only set off _more_ bombs in the house.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

She jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him over, “Thank you, Daddy! I promise- no more experiments this month!” She kissed his cheek and walked farther down the sidewalk to hail a cab.

Sherlock leaned in towards his husband, pecking him on the lips playfully, “I’ll talk to her; one racing mind to the next. Maybe we can reduce the occurrence of ‘accidents’.”

John kissed him back, and walked towards the men in uniforms smirking, “Go teach _your_ daughter about common courtesy!”

Sherlock turned and laughed, his eyes crinkling in the sunlight, “Oh, I highly doubt you want _that_!”

He finally found Evelyn a little farther down the way as a cab pulled up to the curb and he followed her into it, dictating to the cabbie a set of interesting directions towards St. Bart’s.

Evelyn’s knees jiggled in anticipation and her hands twiddled in her lap as she watched London pass by through the windows.

“You know Daddy worries about you and your experiments.” Sherlock’s plain voice was almost unnerving and it jostled Evelyn from her gaze out the window.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and wrung her hands together, “I know, Dad. I just… I don’t know what to do anymore! I’m just _bored_! School is monotonous and dry and there’s not much to do outside of it besides experiment in our flat.”

Sherlock waved towards the window and pointed at the passing statues, “Name me that piece of art.”

Evelyn crinkled her nose, “What?”

He pointed again at the dragon statue they passed slowly as traffic held still, “That statue right there. Tell me what you know about it.”

She pinched her brows together as she tried to figure out what her father was getting at but decided to play along anyways, “Erm, it’s a boundary mark. It marks where London ends.”

He smiled, his bright blue eyes sparkling with delight, “Yes, very good. Now tell me more. Who made it? When? What does the dragon signify?”

She shook her head, “I have no idea. I don’t know anything about them really.”

Sherlock’s grin widened as he pointed to a rundown looking building on the side, “Tell me about that building. What is its purpose? Why is it significant?”

The stubborn teen crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, “Dad, I don’t know a _thing_ about that building. What are you getting at?”

Sherlock smiled kindly and lifted her chin towards him, “If anyone understands how your mind works, I do. Sometimes it feels like a rocket racing out of control and yet sometimes it feels like an engine idling, praying to be used to its full potential. Do you see the world around you, Evelyn?” He waved out the window at the passing ancient monuments and buildings. “The world is an ever changing universe of information. You’ve seen nearly _none_ of it in your time on this Earth. Although, you know, boredom can be an incredibly advantageous tool _if_ implemented correctly. You need to learn how to harness your boredom and control _it_ instead of letting it control _you_.” His gaze lowered to the seat between them and his voice darkened. “I _do_ want to speak to you about that in particularly, though.”

She pursed her eyebrows as Sherlock lowered his hands. “Evelyn, your father may or may not have told you anything about either of our pasts; I know I surely haven’t. But you _do_ need to know the dangers of an easily uninterested mind.” He rolled his sleeves up, exposing the insides of his elbows and forearms.

She gasped and touched the pads of her fingertips to the circular scars around his veins and glanced back up concerned. She had seen Sherlock’s arms all of her life, scars and all, but she had never equated them to a drug habit. It boggled her mind that such an impressive man, her _father_ , would have ever had to worry about a fight with addictions.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, honesty flowing in his words, “You’re about the same age I was when I lost my way, Evelyn. I was young and bored and I began to hate the monotony of the world that I saw around me. I decided to find ways to remedy the tediousness, but it wasn’t without great cost. Thankfully, my addictive personality wasn’t inherited by you, but as you can see,” he poked her forehead gently, “the way I think has been. I think you’ll learn best through honesty, so will you allow me to explain?”

She nodded slowly, curious and concerned at the same time. He half-smiled, leaning back into his seat, as he rolled his sleeves back down and buttoned the cuffs, not looking at her.

“Evelyn, tell me. Do you know what the street name for diacetylmorphine is?”

Evelyn thought about it and pulled the chemical formula to the forefront of her mind, reading through it before answering quietly, “H-heroin.”

Sherlock nodded once in concurrence and gazed out the window. “When I was right around your age, I let my boredom dominate my life. I looked for any way to numb the monotony that was the world and I found a dealer who would work with me. I overdosed for the first time on my sixteenth birthday.”

Evelyn swallowed nervously as she clutched her chest. She only had a few months left until her sixteenth and the prospect of dying on it terrified her.

“It’s really not a pretty sight to see someone overdose. Rather messy, to be honest. What’s worse is actually experiencing it. Evelyn, when I tell you this, I want you to know that yours are the first ears to hear it, do you understand?”

Her deep navy eyes glistened as she nodded slowly allowing Sherlock to continue his monologue.

He glanced back down at her, his eyes meeting hers with seriousness, “Evelyn, I need you to know how terrible it truly is to be addicted to something. It _hurts_. It hurts your body; it hurts your mind; but most of all it hurts those who care about you. When I was younger, I didn’t care enough to worry about that, but I hope that you are wiser than I.” He raised a hand to wipe away a single silent tear that escaped down her cheek. “It may numb the pain or boredom or whatever it is that you’re trying to escape from for a while, but eventually it only intensifies it ten-fold. I never want to see your brilliant mind wasted on such a useless and mundane thing as an addiction. Please, love. Promise me that I’ve made myself clear. Experiments with chemicals in your room are fine, regardless of how many favors we need to call on Lestrade for. However, experiments in your body will never be. You need to learn how to control your mind before it controls you all right? I need to know that you’ll be smarter than I was at your age.” His piercing blue eyes pinned her to the spot, unblinking. “Can I trust you on that?”

She nodded slowly, accelerating the pace as she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s torso. She did not cry into his jacket as she would have years ago. Instead she painted a soldier’s façade as she hugged his form and then leaned back into her chair.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and smiled, “That’s my girl.”

 

***

 

“Oh my Gosh, look how big you are! What are you feeding her, Sherlock?”

Molly smiled and embraced Evelyn as they entered the morgue, Evelyn’s eyes darting around, observing every bit of information enthusiastically.

“So, why did you decide to join us, Evelyn?”

Evelyn grinned as she walked around empty silver tables, “I’ve always wanted to come here, just to see what Dad talks about all the time. I’m going to be a detective like him someday, I think, so I need to get used to it.”

Sherlock looked just as surprised to hear the news as Molly and his eyebrows raised to his hairline as his chest warmed. Molly smiled earnestly as she gently touched his arm. “That’s lovely; a little morbid, but lovely.”

Evelyn grinned back at her as she backed against another table.

Molly held out her arm instinctively, “Evelyn, watch out!”

A cold, blue-tinged arm fell from the wrap and slapped Evelyn’s hand and she screamed, turning around to find the perpetrator: a dead man in his late fifties. The cloth had fallen back with the appendage and she stared for a moment of stunned shock at his cloudy eyes before jumping back and falling on her rear.

“Jesus Christ!”

Sherlock ran over to the young girl and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her away from the sight, fussing over her, “Are you all right, Evelyn? It’s okay, I’m here.”

She pushed away his arm and stood up, dusting the non-existent dirt from her clothes, “I’m fine, Dad. That just… well, you don’t normally expect a corpse to swing at you on your first trip to the morgue, that’s all.”

She smiled reassuringly at him and walked back over to the set of materials Molly had prepared for Sherlock’s experimentations. “What’s this?”

Molly smiled and began to explain the differences of each specimen while Sherlock pulled out his phone.

 

To: John

_I’ve created a monster. –SH_

 

A few moments later his phone pinged with a response.

 

From: John

_Oh God, the world is going to implode. THANKS. –JW_

 

Sherlock smiled as Evelyn called him, “Dad! Are we ready to go?”

He nodded at her, still looking at his phone. “I think so; give me a moment, just waiting on your father’s answer.”

 

To: John

_You are very welcome. Is the flat cleared? –SH_

 

He waited a moment and another ping filled the air.

 

From: John

_Yep. Men in orange are gone. Did you talk to Evelyn? –JW_

To: John

_Yes. I believe I made my point vividly clear. –SH_

Sherlock pocketed his phone and smiled at the two ladies that accompanied him in the room. He picked the box of experimental materials from Molly and kissed her cheek, thanking her for them and allowing his daughter to join him.

“Absolutely! Any time!” Her cheery voice dripped with enthusiasm and although he cared for her, he could only take her company in small doses.

“Come along, Evelyn.”

Her smiling, now five-foot-five, body hopped to his side and waved at the coroner, “Bye, Aunt Molly!”

As they left the hospital, a familiar gait came near them and an umbrella clicked against the concrete.

“Uncle Mycroft!” Evelyn squealed as she wrapped her arms around the tall man’s neck.

Mycroft Holmes’ ever aging form bent down and he wrapped an arm around her slender back, “Hello, Evelyn. How have you been fairing?”

Evelyn pulled back and pointed at her father, “Dad took me to the morgue today! I mean, after I blew up the flat so it wasn’t an entirely good thing, but I got to see Aunt Molly at work and it was brilliant!”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at his younger brother and smiled, “The morgue? I so suppose there are stranger places to take your child on an excursion to. Or perhaps not.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked towards the two, “Hello, Mycroft. Do you need something?”

Mycroft smiled wryly at his brother, “Not in particularly, I just wanted to see how my niece was doing. I _constantly_ worry about her.” He lowered his gaze to the teenager. “Has your father taken you shooting recently?”

Evelyn puffed out her chest, “Last week, actually. Forty of my fifty rounds went straight through the heart!”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, concerned, “The other ten?”

Evelyn winked and crossed her arms, “Right between the eyes.”

The older brother smiled earnestly at her, “Very good, Evelyn. You’ll need those skills eventually, I’m sure.”

His last words were directly specifically at Sherlock who in turn prickled, “As pleased as I am at your concern, brother, is there something you needed?”

Mycroft stood straight, both hands on his umbrella, “I was asked to offer you a position in the government that I advise you to decline.”

Sherlock wagged an eyebrow at him, “I decline. Do I want to know?”

Mycroft shrugged, “MI6. Not field work, but I can’t imagine you having the capacity to sit in the palace without attempting to blow it up.”

Sherlock half-smiled, “For once, you are completely correct in your assumptions. Now, we really must be headed home. Come along, Evelyn.”

Sherlock grabbed her arm and turned her towards the curb before Mycroft called out, “Sherlock, do take care of her, would you? Sometimes I worry about-”

His words were cut off as his cheek slammed into the pale stone of St. Bart’s. Evelyn held her thumb into his hand, bending his fingers against the joints behind his back, smiling.

“Is this enough to keep you from worrying, Uncle Mycroft? I’m still learning, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Mycroft glared down at her and huffed, then changing his glare to stare at Sherlock. The tall detective’s eyes were alight with delight and he was biting his knuckle nigh to the point of breaking skin to control his laughter from erupting in public. The teenager let him off the wall and hugged his chest as he turned.

“Don’t worry! I’ll be fine! I’m a quick study.” She promised into his three-piece suit. She leaned back and looked at him, her face burning with happiness before bounding back to join her father as he hailed a cab.

The two sat in silence in the car before Evelyn spoke up, “I’m sorry. I guess it just looked like you needed something to brighten your mood.”

The cab wasn’t silent again for the rest of the ride; Sherlock’s laughter poured out of the windows.

 

***

 

“No, you can’t go!”

John crossed his arms on his chest asserting his position.

Evelyn pleaded with him, arms waving dramatically, “Why not? Just one crime scene! It’s not even anything fun; it’s just a robbery. Why can’t I come?”

John huffed at the lack of help he was receiving from Sherlock who was sprawled on the couch watching the debacle. “Because it’s a _crime scene_! And it’s not just _a_ robbery, Evelyn. It was a robbery at The National Gallery which is known for its security. I’m a little concerned that whoever stole that painting is able to get past high surveillance without being seen. That’s not exactly a safe place for fifteen-year-old girls!”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and slumped onto Sherlock’s chair, mumbling, “I bet if I were a boy, you’d take me along.”

John recognized a trap when he saw one and he wagged his finger at her, “Now don’t you even start that. This has nothing to do with you being a girl. You’re not going because you’re a _child_. You don’t belong at crime scenes; at least not yet. If you want to start being treated like an adult, start acting like one and stay put!”

She sighed indignantly as she stood up and threw her arms in the air, slamming the door to the flat as the two men heard her stomp up the stairs to her room.

John turned towards the couch and placed a hand on his hip, “Thanks for all your help, Sherlock!”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him without removing his gaze from the ceiling, “I think she _should_ come to a crime scene.”

John’s face dropped in astonishment, waving his hand towards the ceiling at Evelyn’s room, “You’re kidding! She’s a fifteen-year-old girl!”

Sherlock smiled, “Exactly. She’s at the prime age to teach her to _observe_ what the common eye doesn’t see.” He rolled onto his side facing John. “Did you know she wants to be a detective?”

John frowned, but raised his eyebrows, placing both hands on his hips, “No, I didn’t. How do you know that?”

Sherlock smiled as he rolled back on his back and resumed staring at the ceiling, “She told me. Or rather, she told Molly and I was within earshot. She said, ‘I’m going to be a detective like him someday’. What do you think?”

John chuckled and lifted Sherlock’s head so that he could sit on the couch next to him and play with his hair, “I think you’re both crazy. Could you imagine? You’d have to give up your title as the only Consulting Detective in the world.”

Sherlock smiled, more air pushing from his nose in a short laugh, “I’ll have to retire one day. I’d be content passing on the title to her.”

John grinned and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, “I’m sure you would. Now let’s head out before Evelyn comes up with a better argument tactic.”

Sherlock smiled, “Hold on.” He lifted up and pressed his lips to John’s again, eagerly pressing his affections into his husband’s slightly parted mouth. He leaned forward pressing John into couch, as the doctor’s fingers curled in his hair. The sweet taste of tea and essence of John made Sherlock smile against his lips and he refused to let John move from where he has pinned him to the couch.

After half-heartedly struggling, John finally pulled back, panting and held Sherlock away from him. “You stop that or we’ll _never_ get out of here.”

Sherlock pushed himself to John again and smiled against his lips, “I’d be fine with that.”

John pecked him again and grinned, “No you wouldn’t. You’ve been aching for a case for weeks; I’m surprised you haven’t helped Evelyn blow the flat up by now!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s infallible logic and pulled back, sitting straight on the couch and moaning, “ _Fine_.”

The two men padded out of the flat and Sherlock hailed a cab with a swift wave of his long arm. They piled into and headed to The National Gallery.

Evelyn watched from her window as her father’s entered the cab and left, counting to thirty before darting down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, hailing a cab for herself.

_I’ll show them who belongs at a crime scene,_ she thought.

She opened the door and smiled at the cabbie.

 

“The National Gallery, please!”

 


	10. Growing Pains

Evelyn pulled the thin black hood over her head, only her side-swept golden bangs betraying her identity as she carefully walked into the Gallery; her worn Converses nigh silent on the smooth wooden floor.

For some reason she couldn’t fathom, the Yard hadn’t shut down the entire Gallery; only the section that had contained the missing painting in question. She slipped through the halls and dodged through the group of young children and their assumed teacher as she rounded the corner, throwing her back against the wall as she spotted her fathers far enough away that she could only _just_ make out their facial expressions. John stood arms crossed and brow furrowed as he mumbled to a detective, as Sherlock placed his fingers splayed out under his chin, eyes closed and murmuring to himself, obviously walking through his mind palace.

“Breathe, Evelyn! You’ve come all this way, you’re fine!” She quietly reassured herself, her face still torn away from the two men standing in front of the graphitized wall and her hand pressing against her palpitating heart. She slowly gathered the courage to turn and she narrowed her eyes as she tried to examine the scene from afar.

Bright yellow spray paint scarred the ivory walls that once held the piece of art. As far as the teenager could see, it was a crude depiction of an eye cocked slightly to the side as if to watch whoever may encounter it. She frowned. _Not a London gang; I would have seen that sign before_ , she thought to herself perplexed. She, like her father had suggested, had started keeping tabs on the strange happenings in London. She had up to that point created a catalogue of historical statues along with a list of any important information that she thought Sherlock might ever quiz her on regarding each one; a map of every street and traffic light in London, including general wait times per light; and an entire index of gang signs and paints used. Meaning she could determine the gang affiliation, meaning, and artist based only on a picture of the art. For this talent she was thankful as she recognized the paint in an instant even at the distance: Michigan Hardcore Propellant- zinc based.

“That’s a strange paint to use, it takes forever to dry. It could have been smeared by any curious security guard, but it looks untouched… And it’s definitely not ‘The Chasers’ M.O., so it might be coincidence, but the universe is rarely ever so lazy, right Dad?” she mumbled to herself steepling her fingers under her chin attempting to mimic her father’s deduction face. Her eyes twitched over at the men standing in front of the wall as the detective removed his glove and placed a finger on the yellow, scowling as he did so. She quirked her head as the taller man said something sternly towards the shorter man who in turn narrowed his eyes, grimacing at the graffiti on the wall. _Wait. Does the paint mean something to them?_

Her eyebrow peaked at the thought of catching onto something big, but soon her attention was then drawn to the small sign that labeled the painting for flock-minded tourists to distinguish between the works of art. She turned slightly and found a collection of maps, pulling one gently from its nook against the wall. Her fingers traced her steps into the Gallery and picked the hall they were currently occupying.

_The Martyr of Wrath_

_By:_ _D’Artenisica Denileschki_

 

“That’s a pretty morbid one, right?” She questioned herself as she pulled out her phone and typed the name into the search engine.

Several hundred photos of the piece of art shot up and she grimaced at the sight. _Morbid is definitely a decent word for it_ , she thought to herself examining her mobile closely.

Painted in 1894, the oil painting depicted a woman scantily clad in little more than bed sheets sliding a broken blade across a man’s neck. The artist left no detail amiss as she expanded the image with her fingertips, examining the blood that dripped down from his neck and onto the pale white sheets beneath him and the light bluish bruises that were sprinkled across the pale woman’s skin. His body was contorted in pain and fury, fists gripping and tearing at the sheets, as he fought against the offending woman whose expression was pure acid towards her victim.

She researched the painting and its creator more thoroughly finding that the inspiration for the art was the artist’s own rape and that she took her retribution to canvas. After the piece was done, she explained the inspiration to her father who made sure that the rapist never committed another crime against women by castrating him and using his blood to paint a piece of art himself.

Evelyn frowned at the ground and her eyebrows quirked at the thoughtless cycle of violence that surrounded the portrait. The search engine explained further that this particular painting was the world-renowned standard for one topic in particular: Revenge.

Her stomach filled with ice as a feeling she couldn’t quite describe any better than the “heeby- geebies” covered her skin and she narrowed her eyes at the screen.

“I don’t like this one bit,” she mumbled into the air placing her phone back into her pocket and lifting her gaze. She panicked as the two men began to retreat from the wall and walk towards her and she rounded the corner without exhibiting the nerves she felt inside. She bent over to place her face over a water fountain, keeping her face, hands, and any other tell-tale characteristics hidden from the two men that passed. She heard as the Sherlock’s fine leather shoe as it scuffed against the wooden floor and a rustle of clothes as if someone had placed their hand on the other’s arm.

“Problem?” The girl heard John ask gently.

After a moment of no heartbeat, the girl dared to remove her covered face from the water fountain and turn away from the two men and into the bathroom never revealing her face to anything but the wall, well aware she was hiding like a coward.

She rounded the corner into the loo clutching at her chest as she leaned hard against the wall, invisible to the men outside.

She strained her ears as Sherlock spoke quietly, “No, I just… thought I saw something…”

She held her breath as more clothes rustled, presumably John rubbing Sherlock’s shoulder though the jacket, “It’s just nerves, love. Even the world’s only consulting detective gets spooked sometimes. Let’s go grab a Cuppa; I think we’ve a long night ahead of us.”

A squeak of shoes against the floor and several hundred steps away from the bathroom alerted Evelyn of her near-exposure and triumph and she beamed into the mirror opposite her.

“All right! This is getting exciting!” She said gleefully, clapping and rubbing her hands in front of her smiling mouth.

She waited another moment before escaping the bathroom and following where the sound of her fathers’ footsteps had led. As she poked her head out of the entrance to the Gallery to watch the pair of men enter a cab and disappear into the city of London. She felt her phone ping in her jeans and she pulled it out, terrified that she _had_ been spotted.

 

From: Daddy

_Hey there, sweetheart. Could you ask Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on you and to make supper? Dad and I are going to be held up tonight. Try not to blow up the flat while we’re gone. We love you. –Daddy_

 

She smiled as she typed back into her palm, proud of her successful evasion.

 

To: Daddy

_I’m bored out of my mind, so I’m not promising anything. See you when you get home. Love you. –EV_

 

She grinned as she palmed her phone into her back pocket and sauntered away into the Gallery once more.

 

***

 

Boring was definitely not the term she would use to ever describe her night.

After closing time, she had stolen away in a broom closet, her slender frame hiding easily in the empty corner as she covered herself with the mops, brooms, and other cleaning supplies that were carried on a cart. She had nearly been discovered when she had tried to take refuge in the loo, but she had climbed over the stall wall and onto the neighbor toilet quietly enough to not raise suspicion and successfully evaded the custodian by the skin of her teeth.

She pulled out her phone to check the time.

23:32

 _Any minute now,_ she thought to herself as she silently maneuvered around the cleaning supplies and gently into the hallway. She crept along the colorful walls and back into the corridors of art. She slipped through the door leading to the preparation room and looked around carefully before walking fully in.

In the darkness, the room had a certain gloom about it that she couldn’t quite get her stomach to settle with. She hadn’t actually eaten anything since that morning before her fathers had left for the Gallery, so she half-worried that her growling stomach would give her away.

She froze as she heard a grate slide open and the shuffle of clothes and shoes that headed her way. She panicked, searching for a hiding place and barely had enough time to climb into a metal cabinet, silently shutting the door before she heard the clamor of footsteps in the room.

“I don’t understand, Sherlock! Why the hell did we just break into the National Gallery? Am I missing something?”

Her heart stopped at her father’s hushed voice and she held her breath.

“John, didn’t you recognize the paint? _Please_ tell me you have learned _something_ over the years! The universe is rarely lazy enough to permit coincidences; this is deliberate.”

She heard John’s solid form lean against a table of some sort.

“No need for the insults. I just don’t understand the correlation. It was just paint, Sherlock. You realize how many people in the city of London probably own that type of paint?”

Evelyn silently smirked at herself, _Roughly 110 as only two gangs ever use it, and the paint itself is pretty terrible quality._

“John.”

Sherlock’s now tense voice alarmed the teenager and her breath caught in her throat. She placed her ear against the metal door and listened intently as she heard a gun’s safety click off, presumably John’s. Unconsciously, she mouthed the words _Vatican Cameo_ to herself as her body tensed in the cramped space.

She heard a door bang open and bullets fly from barrels as her heart stood still in her chest. A metal trolley of some sort was thrown sideways and she then heard John curse and his voice floated away though the far door followed by the sounds of Sherlock’s expensive shoes and the whirl of his coat. Another few shots flew through the air, thankfully none at her cabinet in particular, and then the world went silent for a long while.

Her still muscles barely bent to her will as she pried the cabinet door open and looked upon the scene. _A terrible mess really_ , she discovered as she stepped silently onto the floor and stood. She glanced around and found that some unfortunate piece of art had a bullet rip straight through the painted canvas and her heart momentarily ached for the artist.

A few far shots shocked her back into reality as she shrunk against the wall and through the push door, silently creeping into the main hallway. Mindful of every movement in the room she occupied, she clinked through the halls and towards the main stairway until she heard the sickly crack of metal against bone and a person’s body slump onto the ground. A shiver crept down her spine and she lifted an eye through the glass pane of the wooden door and down on the mosaic stone floor of the main stairs.

Her sandy-haired father was crumpled on the ground, blood creeping from his temple onto the stone ground and her ebony-haired father knelt at his side, firmly aiming a gun at a figure in black that stood over his husband’s body. Her heart stilled as she listened to the unfamiliar husky voice.

“I’ll shoot yer faggot boyfriend ‘ere before you even have a chance to move yer muscle on the trigger, mate.”

She watched her father snarl as her blood boiled in her skin.

“He’s my husband, thank you very much; and I highly doubt it. The arthritis in your hand has caused you to switch hands for this particular mission and your left hand is not nearly as controlled as your right. The pains of not being ambidextrous, I suppose. I suspect at least a half second difference in contraction time and I assure you, that is far more than I would need to end your insignificant life.”

She noticed as the man in black tensed at his words and she felt a twinge of pride in her father. She then jumped as she heard footsteps on floor down the hallway and scrambled under a nearby bench concealing herself from the intruder behind a potted plant. Another man all clad in black like his partner clicked down the wooden hallway and turned curtly into the stairway, sharply snapping the doors open with his large hands.

Evelyn waited for the doors to shut, then scrambled back to her post to watch the scene. In Sherlock’s shock towards the noise, he had lowered his weapon a fraction and the new man’s partner in crime sprung on the opportunity at once, slamming the butt of his gun into his pale temple. Evelyn gasped as her father’s eyes rolled into his head and slumped forward, his head landing on John’s side. Evelyn wanted more than anything to run down the stairs and strangle the man who had hurt her parents. She had never in her entire life wanted to bring harm to another human being until that point, but now she _yearned_ to _hurt_ the two people standing over her fathers’ limp bodies. John’s heart that resided in her chest pulled her towards the door, begging to take retribution on the couple in black, but Sherlock’s reason physically pushed her back against the ground. _You can’t help if they catch you, little bird,_ his voice echoed through her mind and she ground her teeth pulling herself back up to the glass of the door.

Her heartbeat thrummed violently in her ears as the new man smiled as the original one lowered his gun and smirked at the men on the floor. The taller dark figure nodded towards the exit, “Get ‘em outta ‘ere. The boss s’gonna to have a good time with them tonight, I fink.”

The shorter man in black agreed and placed the gun in his waistband, very like her father, and picked Sherlock’s arms from the floor, wrapping his arms around her father’s thin chest. He hauled the detective towards the exit, his long legs dragging jerkily on the hard stairs.

The taller leaned down towards the doctor on the ground and gripped his limp shoulders, mimicking the other criminal as he dragged John’s form across the stone.

Evelyn angrily rose to her feet and silently padded though the halls until she found a service exit to the road. Sure enough, there was a non-descript van parked outside the tall steps and the possibilities ran through her head like fireworks.

She gripped her temples and scowled as she pulled out her phone and thumbed through the contacts and dialed.

“Hullo?”

“Uncle Greg!” She whispered, leaning against the wall of stairs at her side. “Look, I don’t have much time. Dad and Daddy have been kidnapped and I need your help. The license is Bravo-Delta-Five-One-Sierra-Mike-Romeo. I have a GPS in my phone; follow it. Hurry!”

In order to exhibit exactly how desperate the situation was, she hung up the phone and turned it to silent before she crept to the end of the stairs and studied the car. The door was swung open, _probably for ease of access_ , she assumed, and she found relief in the ineptitude of the men in black.

 _What a useless pair of criminals_.

She jogged past the open door, chucking her phone into it and continuing around the corner of the other side of the stairs. She watched it slip under the driver’s seat as she sprinted away and smiled slightly at her success.

She peered around as the two men clad in black pulled her fathers down the stairs without any grace of which to speak. The first man slid the ebony-haired man flat against the metal wall of the car and a moment later, the second man unsympathetically threw the doctor alongside the detective, slamming the door and sealing their fates.

_I am going to seriously hurt that man, I swear to God._

The black van started and subsequently screamed from its parking spot and into the street out of her sight.

“The game is on,” she promised coldly as she ran down the sidewalk until she hit a busier road, only pausing to hail a cab.

She pulled out her mp3 player from her back pocket and opened her desired app: _Find My Phone_. The cabbie impatiently waited as the red dot blipped on the screen and as it finally did, she nearly threw it at him hollering, “Follow that dot! Hurry!”

The cabbie jerked the car forward and Evelyn leaned back in her seat hotly. _I swear I’m going to… Ugh!_

She gripped her hands at her side and peered out of the cab window, spitting her disdain on every wall and surface that they passed.

_Come on, Uncle Greg. Don’t let me down._

 

***

 

Sherlock came to with a groan, his eyelids heavy against him and his head throbbing. He peeled his eyes open slowly and took stock of the situation wearily.

_Concrete room, strapped to chair, zip-ties, headache, perhaps concussion?, two doors , single light bulb on string in middle of room, God my head, smells like oil and wood, perhaps a warehouse?, stacks of boxes- definitely a warehouse, cold skin against my hand, cold skin?_

_Oh, God. John!_

His pale silver eyes flew open, vision still fuzzy, as he struggled against his restraints; the zip-ties cutting into his fair skin.

His voice cracked as he craned his neck painfully around at the man bound in a chair to his back and panicked, “John? John! Can you hear me?”

Silence greeted his request. “John! Wake up!” He hissed to his side, still unable to see the face of his doctor.

The sandy-haired man wordlessly refused his husband; his head slumped forward in his chair, arms tied behind his back similarly to Sherlock’s. The detective held his breath and listened desperately for John’s.

After a moment of terrified silence, the doctor finally inhaled softly; shallow breaths that meant he was still alive. Sherlock relaxed slightly as he peered around the room. There wasn’t much hope of getting out by force, especially if they were outnumbered, so their only hope was to cause enough of a ruckus to be able to slide out.

Just as Sherlock closed his eyes to devise a plan, a slow clap filled the hollowed room and crisp steps inched near the detective.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and his skin turned as white as the ghost he was seeing before him should have been.

The dark-haired Irish man smiled brazenly as he approached the detective and gripped his chin harshly between his thumb and forefinger, his sing-song voice echoing in the warehouse and chilling Sherlock to the core.

 

“Did you miss me?”

 

***

 

“Dammit!”

Evelyn cursed under her breath as she finally made her way up the path into the view of the warehouse. Every door, one on each side of the building, had a guard that was easily twice her size and considerably more equipped for a fight than she.

She slunk into the darkness around the outside of the warehouse and studied one lone guardsman in particular.

_Ex-military for sure, definitely has the same stance as Daddy. Married, relatively happily as the ring doesn’t move much. Marker stains on his left hand but he’s obviously right handed, definitely pink, definitely a young daughter…_

“Gotcha,” she mumbled to herself, smiling wryly. She knew her plan was probably more likely to get her killed than to infiltrate the premises, but her instincts told her to shoot for it and hope for the best.

She picked the penknife from her pulled up hair and twisted the cap off exposing the sharp metal hiding inside. She hissed through her teeth as she sliced a very shallow line across her cheek and after unzipping the hoodie and exposing the white shirt underneath, she repeated the motion across the side of her stomach; just deep enough to produce blood, but not enough to cause any real damage. She rubbed her right hand across her cheek, painting her pale skin with scarlet and then rubbed the lifeblood on her white shirt. She pulled down her hair and ran her fingers through it, highlighting the golden locks with crimson and tousling it into a rather disheveled mess.

She rolled her pen back together, shoved it into her hoodie and readied herself. She took a few deep breaths and pinched her eyes shut filling her mind with pictures of her fathers lying slumped on the ground of the Gallery; the helplessness she felt behind the door; the anger she felt watching the men throw their bodies into an unmarked car; the fear that Uncle Greg wouldn’t come through; the fear of her fathers’ demises if she did not succeed. To her delight, her breath began to catch and tears streamed down her face; the clear liquid mingling with the blood to create a terrible mess on her skin. Thankfully, her small frame and plump face made her look younger than her years, and she rigorously hoped that she looked terrible enough for this to actually work.

“Here goes nothing.”

Making sure that there were no other guards to interrupt her acting debut, she rounded the corner and stumbled into the light emanating from above the guard’s head sobbing.

As she expected, he leveled his gun at her and sneered, “Who are you and what are you doing?”

She fell to her knees a few meters in front of him and wept profusely raising a bloody, trembling hand. He voice was the perfect mix of terror and persuasion as it shook, “Please! P-please don’t shoot! He- he _hurt_ me! I- I- I can’t find my Daddy! _Pl-please!_ ” She awkwardly clambered back to her shaky feet and stepped towards him, “Please! I’m lost! He hurt me so bad! I- I-” She gasped as she dramatically fluttered her eyelids and her fragile-looking form collapsed in front of him. Her face hit the dirt with a soft thud and she could hear the man’s breath catch in his throat. His mind was probably racing with awful images as he mentally replaced Evelyn’s bloody face with his daughter’s.

As she anticipated, the man knelt down beside her to check her pulse.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. His guard was only down for a moment, and a moment was all she needed.

Her eyes darted open wide as she swung her hand at his; quickly retrieving the gun from his unsuspecting hand and in a single motion knelt forward and brought it hard against the side of his head.

Before the guard could call for help, his form slumped forward against her and she struggled to remove herself from his oppressive weight. As she finally pulled free, she searched his pockets frantically for keys, passes, anything that would allow for access into the building.

Her careful hands found a set of keys behind his holster and she beamed as she knelt against his body.

She gently placed a hand on his cheek and frowned, her voice filled with sincerity, “I really am sorry, sir. Please get better soon.”

She stood, aware she would be leaving him in the open to be found, but also aware that he was far too heavy for her to be able to move by herself, and tucked the gun in her jeans waistband and under her hoodie as she crept to the door.

She checked the door for a maker’s signature and found the key that matched, sliding it easily into the key hole and twisting gently until a pop meant that she had infiltrated the warehouse.

Her chest burned as she shut the door behind her and she took off down the hall beaming.

_I’m on my way, just hold on._

_***_

 

Sherlock regained his composure as he stared at the man before him. Evelyn had been right; although the faces were incredibly similar; this man was _not_ James Moriarty.

He swallowed quietly and cleared his throat, allowing for his voice to retain its steadiness, “I’m afraid we haven’t met. I’m Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. And you are?”

The man seemed almost hurt that his identity had been discovered so quickly but immediately found solace in John’s still unconscious form.

He cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock and smiled, “Moriarty, but I think we both know you knew that already. So this is the famous Doctor Watson, is it?” He asked, walking behind Sherlock’s back to face John’s body.

He pouted as he brought his hand to cup John’s still cheek, “He’s not much to look at, is he?”

Sherlock seethed as he heard a hard slap against John’s face and he struggled against his restraint, hissing, “You will pay for that, I promise.”

John gasped at the contact and finally stirred, his head gently knocking against Sherlock’s as he blinked his eyes open. His voice was weary and rough, “Ugh, fuck… Sherlock?”

Moriarty leaned it towards him, only inches from his face, “Afraid not, love.” His disguised voice nearly perfectly mimicked Sherlock’s signature baritone and the detective stilled at the sound.

John’s brow furrowed and he blinked a few times more before his eyes settled and focused on Moriarty’s face. He started and kicked back against Sherlock’s spine, “Jesus Christ!”

Moriarty smiled as he walked around the two, his heels clicking against the concrete floor. “It’s so nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve been waiting a rather long time. Did you like my gift?”

“Stealing artwork that represents the idea of revenge doesn’t constitute an impressive gift in my opinion,” he growled, his hands finding and gripping tightly at John’s now animated fingers.

The consulting-criminal-look-alike smiled and pulled his now ringing phone out of his pocket, “No? What a pity. I surely thought you would have enjoyed it. No matter, I suppose.” His thumb swiped across the screen as he pulled it gently to his ear.

Sherlock heard the murmur of the other line just as Moriarty began to scowl and the cruel voice screamed into the mobile, “What do you _mean_ she’s not there?”

 _She? Oh God._ _Oh God, no. Nonononono._ He jerked against his restraint and struggled against the chair forcefully causing John to jump.

“What’s wrong with you?” He hissed at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s venomous whisper curdled the doctor’s stomach. “ _She?_ John! He’s talking about Evelyn, you idiot!”

The doctor visibly stilled in his seat and mumbled, “Where the hell would she be besides Baker Street?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he listened to Moriarty’s thundering voice, “Well _find_ her or I will kill you and your _entire_ pitiful family, and wear your face on my next pair of shoes!”

The detective whispered frantically, “I don’t know, John, but we _need_ to find her before they do!”

The Irish man shoved his phone in his pocket and scowled at the ground before painting the façade of control on his round face again, “Little hiccup, I’m afraid. Evelyn Watson will be joining us soon though, I promise. Regardless, that just means I have more time to play with my toys.” He sneered towards the two restrained men under the light as he pulled two syringes from within his suit.

A chill ran through Sherlock’s spine as he examined it from afar. The crimson fluid was thick in the syringes and if he were a layperson, he would have assumed it to be blood. That however was not the case.

“H.O.U.N.D.? How original. I thought that even _you_ could have come up with something a little less boring,” He said coolly between clenched teeth.

Moriarty frowned at the detective playfully, “Original? Perhaps not. Entertaining? I should rather hope so.”

He paced slowly to the detective and his doctor, his heels clicking against the concrete floor in a cadence. “You know, Jim would have loved to see you squirm so, Mr. Holmes.” He cooed as he gripped Sherlock’s neck with his right hand. He jerked the detective to the side and placed the needle against his jugular vein.

The ebony-haired man seethed through his teeth as he struggled to maneuver himself from the gripping hands, but the reflexes of Moriarty’s fingers only held him firmly in place, now suffocating him.

“Let him go, you bastard!” John struggled violently against his chair, but his threat fell on deaf ears as the Irish man slipped the needle through the pale skin with a _pop_ of supple flesh.

He leaned in close to Sherlock’s flushed face and nipped playfully at his earlobe causing the detective to scowl in disgust as he felt the syringe contaminated his blood forcefully,

 

“Sweet dreams, Sherlock Holmes.”


	11. Lions and Shadows and Blood, Oh My.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a little time and got to spit out an extra chapter! Thank you all for reading; your comments and appreciation mean so much!
> 
> Not you know that special place in purgatory where everything in your story is resolved and there's still a good fourth of the story left?  
> Welcome ;)

The detective gasped as the slick feeling of the solution seeped into his artery. He knew his time was short as his jugular was throbbing violently and his brain was quickly going to succumb to the injection.

_It’s not real. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. You need to focus if you’re going to get John out of here._

His eyes darted open as he inhaled sharply. His mouth felt dry as he swallowed the air and his vision began to blur slightly around the edges. Thankfully, the man in front of him had remained just that for the time being and he narrowed his eyes at him, watching as he dropped both syringes on the floor, John’s dose apparently forgotten.

The man sneered, but whatever words he might have been saying only came out as incoherent growls to Sherlock’s ears. He could feel his breath pattern accelerate as he tried to speak, his voice humming through his body and sounding alien to him, “I am going to kill you, Moriarty. Mark my words.”

The dark-haired man jerked in front of his face, eyes blown wide and sneering. Without warning, he pressed hard against Sherlock’s lips and bit down, splitting the fragile skin. The detective cried out in both shock and pain as he jerked away and spat venomously onto the floor.

The Irish man grinned cruelly as Sherlock watched his eyes turn to fire and his burning hands ripped at Sherlock’s wrists, surprisingly freeing them. Suddenly, his body was thrown to the ground and the man straddled him against the concrete, digging his shoulders into the hard surface with sharp fingers.

He growled as he struggled against Moriarty, and his ears were filled with a mixture of his own speeding heart and of the indistinct bellow of the man still strapped in his chair. Moriarty snarled something into his face as his pelvis dug into Sherlock’s causing his stomach to churn. Sherlock’s brilliant silver-blue eyes narrowed as he grimaced against his captor, who proceeded to wrench open the detective’s shirt with a swift jerk of his hands as buttons flew away from him and the silk tore, exposing his heaving chest. The devil-man then thrust his fire-filled fingertips into Sherlock’s skin, gripping and tearing at the ivory flesh much to his dismay. He could feel the claws rip across his ribcage, splitting the thin skin on his torso, as he grappled with the man’s wrists in an attempt to tear the hands away from him.

He howled in frustration and effort as he finally succeeded and he pushed the man off of him, staggering awkwardly to his feet. His hands cradled his head as it throbbed with the heightened heart rate and he pinched his eyes shut from the pain.

Suddenly thunder rung out through the room and he turned to find Moriarty’s clear face of shock before searching the dark for the source of the sound. A shadow glinting with silver slid across the floor towards them and mumbled something intelligible. Its voice sounded familiar and comforting like a bird’s song, but was tinged with wrath and venom as it spoke to the Irish man.

Sherlock watched as Moriarty’s face caught fire and his bellowing voice filled the room.

_Alright, it’s completely set in. Whatever you see isn’t real. Get John out of here. Get-!_

The detective’s eyes blew wide and his hand clutched at his chest as his knees hit the ground hard. A burning sensation very similar to being shot filled his torso and he panted as he held himself from the ground on one hand. He could feel heat creep over his body, even as his flesh was exposed and it caused the air around him to condense almost to the consistency of fog and he choked on its thickness.

His ears peaked from a squeal and another crash of thunder that echoed in his ears, causing him to recoil from the volume. His entire form hit the ground with a thud as his hands covered his ears and his eyes pinched shut. He could feel his mouth cry out, but he couldn’t make out the words. He chanced a glance at the suit-clad man and he watched him crumple to the ground with terror painted on his round face.

The man’s face was contorted in pain and fire flew from his lips as he howled at the shadow that was currently headed towards the three men. He curled in on himself, his face burning with white hot flames until he fell still, crimson pooling around his body. The sparkling blood extinguished the fire as his face laid on the ground, eyes frozen open in death.

Sherlock jerked away from the body in terror and he glanced up at his captor’s attacker horrified. The shadow had crossed the distance during the fray and was now enveloping John’s form. Instead of shrinking as it crawled under the light, the dark form only magnified and now the wings that had silently grown from it wrapped around John’s unsuspecting throat.

His reason tried to explain that whatever he was seeing wasn’t real, but the fact that John was in danger, no matter who the assailant, caused his protective instincts to kick into overdrive and shut his intuition up for good.

Sherlock growled as he drew himself to his feet, and staggered to John’s side, gripping the shadow and forcefully throwing it to the side. The dark form slid against the concrete and Sherlock fell towards it, struggling to keep its writhing form still enough to control.

His silver-blue eyes narrowed as he finally set his large hands on the harder part of the dark body and jerked it straight against the ground; a hard thunk filling the air. Sparkling stars saturated what Sherlock supposed to be the shadow’s face as he snarled and slid his right hand around its throat. He heard bells chime from within the darkness and they began to grate on his ears as they grew higher in tone the longer he led on.

“Shut up!” He growled in frustration as his grip tightened marginally. He watched as the shadow flickered in the gloomy light from above and the bells in his head began to decrescendo into silence.

Suddenly, a warm force wrapped itself around Sherlock’s torso and jolted him from the shadow lying on the ground. He heard a soft growl come from behind him as he struggled against the unseen assailant.

“Unhand me! Let me go!” His baritone sounded like it was miles away as he hollered, and his hands scratched at the restraints on his chest; a small victory was felt as his nails tore away some flesh.

A roar, not unlike a lion’s reverberated through him and the vibrations caused his heart to catch. His body stiffened as the empty feeling seeped through his body and he gasped, silence filling his throat before a light moan of pain escaped him.

His restrained arms clutched at his chest and he choked on the thick air that surrounded him. His erratic heartbeat thrummed through his ears and began to hitch on random beats; every time sending a shock like a black hole through his system. The growling being released him from his grip and Sherlock’s body slumped to the floor, his mouth gaped wide open searching for air that evaded him.

He grimaced and his body convulsed slightly as another blow to his burning heart left him breathless and he felt the warmth of saline slip down his cheeks.

“John… _Help me…_ ” He gasped weakly to anything that would listen to his plea.

Thunder burst into the room again and his throbbing body cringed on the cold ground at the sound.

A storm of drum cadences filled the air, as the shadow that had finally picked itself from the ground covered his body. The bells chimed frantically as the phantom rolled Sherlock onto his back and the detective shuddered and moaned from his aching chest.

A soft pillow of darkness wrapped itself around Sherlock’s cheek and he allowed it to; his body refusing to battle against whatever came his way any longer. He glanced up at the shadow and stars fell onto his face, coating his cheek in sparkles and warmth.

Bells chimed sadly as the warmth kneaded against his skin and his eyes blew open as he felt his heart stop beating for a whole measure and he gasped. His eyes flickered shut and his mouth hung open as the solution running rampant through his veins finally triumphed over his body.

The ringing grew more panicked as he felt his head loll to the side and onto the cold concrete and sleep slipped over him like cool blanket of emptiness.

 

***

 

The blonde teenager skirted into what looked like a storage room, gun drawn to her chest as she sneaked behind the piles of boxes. She had only ever held one in the presence of her father, so the cool metal still felt foreign to the touch.

The area had only one source of illumination that hung from a single strand in the middle of the room. She peered around a set of boxes and did her best to explain the scene to herself.

_Two men strapped in chairs, their backs against each other._

She heard Sherlock’s groan into consciousness and his curls bounced as he opened his eyes.

_Dad! Daddy!_

She stood frozen to her spot as the detective began to panic at the doctor’s unconsciousness.

“John?John! Can you hear me?” The sound of terror gripped her heart as she watched her father’s heart break. “John! Wake up!”

The doctor ignored him and Evelyn felt a pang of fear that her father would never wake until she was shaken back into action by a slow clap. She threw her back against the crates without even so much sound as the rustle of cloth and watched with a single eye.

_That man!_

The same man that had haunted her all her life was slowly stepping towards her fathers and opened his mouth to speak. “Did you miss me?”

She ground her teeth at the familiar phrase and she held her breath as her father, ever the antagonist, spoke steadily, “I’m afraid we haven’t met. I’m Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. And you are?”

The Irish man explained himself as he turned around to Sherlock’s backside and towards John. She had to physically restrain herself from shooting him right then and there as she watched John’s face recoil from the blow and regain consciousness. Sherlock snarled and as the doctor’s eyes opened and focused on the man in front of him, he cursed, jerking back against his husband.

Moriarty rattled on about some gift, his heels clicking against the floor in an unnerving cadence that irritated Evelyn. Suddenly, his phone began to ring, the mechanic tones filling the empty room until he slid it unlocked and spoke into it.

 _Okay, Evelyn. What would Daddy do?_ She asked herself as she tried to force herself to think like a soldier stepping into enemy territory. She finally gathered the courage to go in guns blazing before a shrill cry of frustration startled her back against the crates.

“What do you _mean_ she’s not there?”

 _She? They can’t possibly be talking about me._ She watched as the detective’s eyebrows shot to his hairline and he began to struggle violently in his chair. The doctor and his husband murmured quietly to each other and although she couldn’t make out the words, she could see John’s reaction fill with dread.

“…and wear your face on my next pair of shoes!”

Her nose crinkled. _Seriously? A pair of shoes? What is this- a nineteen-twenty’s gang movie?_

The sing-song voice again filled the room with animosity, “Little hiccup, I’m afraid. Evelyn Watson will be joining us soon though, I promise. Regardless, that just means I have more time to play with my toys.”

Her eyes widened in realization. _They_ were _talking about me. Oh my God, I wonder if Mrs. Hudson is all right!_

She pressed herself against the crate again as she peered at what the pseudo-Moriarty plucked from his jacket: syringes.

She prickled in alarm as she recognized the scarlet liquid immediately. Her hand clutched at her chest reflexively at the memories of climbing onto the roof in the rain and the blue dragon that followed her out. _Nope! Not that! Don’t you dare or I’ll make_ you _into shoes!_

Sherlock scoffed slightly then hissed through his teeth something about originality and boredom as the Irish man crept closer than Evelyn was comfortable with towards him.

Suddenly, his hand was gripping Sherlock’s face and one of the syringes pierced into his skin, injecting him with the crimson solution. John hollered in vain at the man and his booming voice echoed ignored against the hard and empty walls.

Evelyn’s heart jumped as she saw Sherlock’s head slump forward and she heard him gasp, remembering the exact moment she felt her chest constrain with the drug.

His eyes blew open as he continued to wheeze in his chair and the Irish man threw the syringes to the ground in triumph.

 _At least Daddy will be fine_. She reassured herself as she began to creep around the boxes and towards the scene. Her father mumbled something towards the man who subsequently…

Evelyn’s heart jerked in her chest as fury filled her. _Did he just kiss Dad?! Oh my God. He’s dead. He is SO dead._

She was still too far away to stop anything while Moriarty untied the detective’s hands and threw him to the ground, grappling sexually against him.

Sherlock’s cries broke her heart as she watched him writhe and his shirt rip under Moriarty’s hands. She recognized the panting in his breath as he finally broke free and stood gripping his head tenderly: he didn’t have much longer before he started to see things. Moriarty stood as well, poised to pounce back on her father at any moment.

She stood still, just outside of the range of light and aimed.

Both eyes open.

Hands steady.

Breath caught.

Trigger… Pulled.

The echo of her shot filled the room and everything went silent as three pairs of eyes looked in her direction for explanation.

She held her breath as Moriarty stilled, and she caught the glimmer of silver that had been caught right where his heart was in the fabric.

She groaned audibly and waved her hands dramatically in the air, frustrated, “ _Seriously_?” She asked incredulously. “You _would_ be wearing a bloody bullet vest when I had the _perfect_ shot!”

John’s jaw dropped and his eyes narrowed, “ _Evelyn?!”_

Moriarty turned and growled at the teenage girl, his dark eyes boring into her skin even from afar, “How _dare_ you!”

She raised her weapon at him again and walked slowly forward, “Don’t move, Moriarty. You move one muscle and I will shoot you. Based off your rapid breathing, I can assume my clean shot to the femoral artery will take less than thirty seconds to render you unconscious and probably four minutes until your heart beats for the last time. I can assure you: your chances of survival are slim to none.”

She flicked her eyes at John who seemed to glow with pride at her and smiled slightly towards him.

Moriarty growled at her, his face contorting with rage, “You stupid slut! How dare you threaten me!”

Suddenly, her eyes caught as Sherlock gasped and a light whine escaped his throat as he clutched at his chest. His face pinched with pain as he fell forward and onto the ground, holding himself up with one hand to keep his face from hitting the floor.

“Dad!”

Her father panted into the floor, every breath taking more effort than the one prior and every muscle in his body trembled as sweat gathered on his brow.

Moriarty took the moment of her stunned silence to lunge towards her and she screamed, pulling the trigger again.

A cry of agony screamed through the room as the being crumpled to the ground; his thigh bleeding profusely onto the floor.

Satisfied at his immobility, she tucked the gun into her back pocket and ran to John, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Daddy! I was so worried about you!”

John leaned into her arms and his eyes glistened with pride, “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Evelyn? What’s wrong with your face?”

She smirked at him as she unconsciously rubbed her hand against her cheek and she pulled the penknife from her jacket, leaning down around his wrists, “Oh that’s nothing; just a little stage magic. But if you’re going to scold me, we might want to get out of this hell-hole first! Uncle Greg should be here-!”

As she clipped one of the zip ties, freeing John’s right hand, a dark shadow knocked her to the ground and she slid across the concrete in the momentum; the knife slipping out of her hand and clattering against the floor.

Much to her surprise, it was Sherlock straddled her to the ground, his large hands shoving her into the floor with a crack against her skull and enough force on her shoulders that she could feel her bones stretching to the point of cracking.

She cried out in panic, her face about a foot away from Sherlock’s, “Dad! Dad, it’s me! It’s Evelyn! Please!”

She raised her eyes to Sherlock’s and gasped. His normally kind and beautiful eyes were now a thin line of silver encompassing a pool of black emptiness. Every line of his face was dark and deep from the mixture of pain and drug-induced wrath.

She squirmed as she felt his hand close around her throat and real tears streamed down her face.

“Dad! _Please!_ You’re hurting me! Please, Dad, let me go!”

The familiar, strong hands that taught her to read music and that held her as she cried constricted ever tighter around her throat, causing her to choke.

His broken voice spat in her face as his dilated eyes saw monsters that weren’t there, “Shut up!”

She swatted at him numbly, not actually causing any damage as her vision darkened and her throat bruised. Her cries became silent as she began to plead with her father with only her lips.

_Please, Dad. Stop. I love you._

Suddenly, the pressure on her throat was ripped away and a flash of colors flooded her vision. John, who had managed to pick up the knife she had dropped on the ground and free his other hand, was gripping Sherlock to him and away from Evelyn.

Evelyn cringed as she coughed and swallowed the air, watching her father flail against the short doctor.

“Unhand me! Let me go!” He screamed, his nails tearing into John’s forearms.

The doctor growled in pain, but didn’t release the detective from his grasp. “That’s your daughter you maniac! What the fuck are you doing?!”

The ebony-haired man suddenly shuddered as his eyes flew open, and a light moan of pain escaped his lips as his body stiffened against John’s.

“Sherlock?” The doctor’s concerned voice mumbled into the dark curls, as he placed a hand over his chest. “Jesus, Sherlock, relax!”

Evelyn cried out, “It’s not him! It’s the H.O.U.N.D. stuff! We have to get him to a hospital!”

Sherlock gripped at his chest and his body convulsed against John who slowly laid him on the floor supine. The detective curled around himself as shock after shock attacked his torso, and his cracked voice yelped pitifully at the pain. He bared his teeth and pinched his eyes shut as tears crept down his cheek.

His body fell lax as his tattered spirit whispered against the ground, breaking both John’s and Evelyn’s hearts.

“John… _Help me…_ ”

Evelyn quickly turned her head as she heard a door bang open, and her hand hovered over her back, ready to aim her gun as she recognized the face at the front.

“Uncle Greg! We need an ambulance! Dad’s heart is about to stop beating!”

He mumbled something into a radio and she turned back to her father on the ground and she could see his eyes flickering closed. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back onto his back so that she could see him and her tears fell on his face as she cupped his cheek.

“Dad! Dad, stay with me! Uncle Greg is here, it’s gonna be okay! Don’t go!”

Sherlock’s eyes looked at her blankly for a moment until a final shock hit his heart and his face pinched in pain.

“No! Nononono, Dad!” She screamed as Sherlock’s eyes closed and his head slid to the ground. “Dad!”

John grabbed her around the torso and slung her to the side gently, putting his fingers to Sherlock’s neck. He waited.

 

And waited.

 

 

 

 

And waited.

 

“Shit!” He straddled his husband to the ground and began to push on his chest. “I swear to God! Can’t you people ever keep your own bloody hearts beating?!”

Detective Inspector Lestrade quickly ran up to Evelyn and wrapped his arms around her, gripping her face to his chest.

“Don’t look, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, you’re gonna be fine. Dad’s gonna be fine, too. Just stay with me.”

He dragged his fingers through her hair and gripped her tighter as she shuddered and mumbled into his bullet-proof vest.

He leaned down to hear her clearly, concerned, “What was that, love?”

She pulled away from him slightly, a mixture of terrified and excited tears still streaming down her face.

“It’s o-over. I d-did it.”

Lestrade bent forward more, gripping her tightly against his torso as the paramedics flew through the door and towards Sherlock’s unmoving form. “You did what?”

She hugged back into his chest as she began to tremble from the realization of what she was about to say.

 

“It’s finally over. I-I killed him, Uncle Greg. I killed Moriarty.”


	12. Monsters

“I’m not emotionally traumatized, Daddy. I’m fine. I don’t need to talk to anyone about it.”

The fifteen year old girl sat crisscrossed on her bed, arms folded over her chest. Her gaze was pointed at a knick in the wood that wasn’t particularly interesting, but was definitely more interesting than this conversation.

John shifted on the bed and placed a warm hand on her knee, “Evelyn, love. I know how you feel. You feel strained, terrified, you might even feel a bit guilty-”

Her eyes snapped open and glared at the sandy-haired doctor, “ _Guilty_? You think I feel _guilty_ for what I did? That man nearly killed Dad _and me_ or don’t you remember; because _I_ certainly do!”

John bit his cheek as he looked at his daughter, brow furrowed, “Evelyn, look. You won’t feel guilty now, maybe not even for a while, but eventually your conscience is going to blame you for snuffing out that man’s life- worthless or not. You need to be prepared for that. I was a soldier, remember? I understand the might of a trigger more so than you may realize.” He sighed as he placed his palms in his lap, lowering his gaze from the girl. “I haven’t been on the field for nearly _twenty_ years now and I _still_ get nightmares, Evelyn. It takes a toll on you and I just don’t want you to become callous towards humankind and our fragile lives.” He looked up sadly, but smiled as he placed his warm tanned hand on her fair cheek. “Even so, I am so proud of what you did. You saved all of our lives. You’re a damn good shot, and you’re brilliant under pressure. I am so very proud of you. Just… Keep your humanity in check, alright, love?”

He stood slowly after sadly kissing her bandaged cheek, “I’m headed downstairs. I’ll be there if you need me.”

She refused to look at him as he stepped quietly out of the room and only waited to hear her bedroom door click shut to exhale deeply.

She slung her body flat on her bed and bored holes in the ceiling with her stare.

“I’m _fine_! They’re just mad that I didn’t stay home… And what would have happened if I _had_ listened? Then I would have been picked up by some maniacs and thrown in a car like them and God knows what would have happened! Jesus! Argh!”

She growled as she threw a pillow against the wall in frustration. “I can handle _myself_. I don’t need them to fucking coddle me like a child.”

She laid her head on the pillow she still had left and sighed into the familiar scent of detergent and her shampoo.

“I don’t need your help.”

Her eyes shut as she listened to the two men speaking downstairs; their deep mumblings like a lullaby.

“I’m fine.”

 

***

 

“I guarantee she’ll have a nightmare tonight; stubborn kid.”

John sighed plainly, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked into the sitting room.

Sherlock looked up sadly from the couch then back down, mumbling into his chest, “Of Moriarty or me?”

John felt a pang of pity and sorrow shock through his heart as he slowly placed himself on the couch next to the detective. He had been allowed out of the hospital after only twelve hours of surveillance against their wishes, but he had convinced them that John was a competent enough doctor to keep him in check. So here he sat: ribs bandaged up, lip swollen, and spirit terribly broken.

John leaned his body against his, the tan arms wrapping themselves around the pale detective in a warm embrace.

“Sherlock, you can’t dwell on that. She’s had firsthand experience with that stuff; she gets it.”

The palpable silence was deafening and John felt as Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. The brilliant eyes closed, and the wide eyebrows pursed as he walked through his mind palace to find unknown information or perhaps only to ignore John’s presence for a moment.

The doctor took the hint and stood slowly, walking into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Two ceramic mugs and tea bags were placed on the counter and he began to hum to himself as he felt the comfort of familiar habits. He needed to keep a level head, especially if he suspected he would be up all night caring for their daughter’s mental wellbeing.

He frowned to himself as he poured the boiling water into the cups. _I just wish I could have kept her from having to pull that trigger. She’s never going to forget that sight. She’s way too young to have those kinds of nightmares, dammit._ He groaned lightly, stirring the milk into the tea; he then jumped slightly as he finally noticed the tub of fingers on the inappropriate shelf as he placed the milk back into its home.

Satisfied after moving around the acceptable and rather less-than-acceptable materials in the refrigerator, he washed his hands and picked the mugs up from their steeping and walked into the sitting room.

Sherlock’s face was still stagnant in thought so John smiled and placed the cup in front of him on the table with a soft _chink_. Unable to restrain himself, he gently pushed the rebel lock from in front of the detective’s eyes, rubbing a thumb across his brow.

A comfortable silence filled the flat once more as John retired to his chair and flipped open a book, the dog ear reminding him of his place. Sherlock had on many occasions expressed his distaste of dog-earing books, so John had made a point to expressly do it just to see him flustered.

He smirked to himself as he finished his chapter and sipped the last of his tea.

“She’s terrified of me.”

John jerked up alarmed at the sound of Sherlock’s hard voice and cocked an eyebrow at the man on the couch.

The detective’s legs were pulled to his chest, and his arms wrapped around them. His chin rested gently in the space between his knees and his narrowed eyes stared blankly at the no longer steaming cup in front of him.

John flicked the book shut and stood, walking towards the couch and sitting gently next to him again as he rubbed his hands against the unwrapped part of Sherlock’s chest, “No. No, that’s not it at all. She’s not afraid of you-”

Sherlock’s firm voice cut him off, “Did you see her face, John? Did you actually _observe_ her reaction when I reached for her hand today?” John’s vacant expression begged for explanation. “Her pupils were dilated at _least_ thirty percent larger than normal. Her hands were trembling and her palms were drenched with sweat. I felt her pulse though her thumb and it had skyrocketed. John, our daughter is horrified that I’m going to hurt her, and I can’t even tell her she’s wrong.”

Sherlock’s detached words sent a shiver down his husband’s spine. _Nope. I’m not letting you do this to yourself._

John’s deep blue eyes creased in concern as he grabbed Sherlock’s face in his palms, “Sherlock, look at me. _Really_ look at me.”

The detective thought about looking away if only to spite him, but thought better of it and reluctantly raised his gaze. John stilled in grief as the normally brilliant eyes were hazed in guilt and the pale blue was drenched with self-loathing.

John rubbed his thumbs against the prominent cheek bones lovingly, “Sherlock, love. Our daughter is _fifteen_ and she just shot someone to save our lives. She _killed_ someone. Could you imagine that kind of stress on a child? Hell, she still has to ask to go to the loo at school and, yet, she just inherited the responsibility of singlehandedly ending someone’s life.She’s probably terrified of _everything_ right now. You can’t blame yourself over something you had no control-”

“John, I _hurt_ her!” His panicked baritone rang through the flat as he grimaced and it startled the doctor into muteness as he lowered his hands from his husband’s face. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he raised his trembling hands and scowled at them hatefully. “These hands _bruised_ our daughter, John! They held her to the ground as she struggled! She will _never_ trust me again!” After a moment of intense glaring, Sherlock wrapped the long arms back around his knees again, and mumbled into the fabric of his housecoat as he turned his face away from John. “Even after all these years, I can’t run away from myself. I’m a _monster_.”

He clenched his fists as his flushed cheeks pushed against his shimmering eyes and offensive saline made its appearance, dampening the fabric on his knees. His body began to tremble with unexpressed self-loathing and John placed a hand on his shoulder, alarmed.

“No, no, no, Sherlock,” John fussed, raising his hand to run his fingers through the ebony curls. “Nobody thinks that but you. You’re all right. Shhh. You’re no monster. Monsters aren’t kind, or talented, or loving, or…”

“But they are unstable.” Sherlock bit venomously. “And cruel, and terrible-”

“And that’s exactly why our daughter shot one yesterday,” John interrupted sternly, his hand gripping at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come here… Please,” he urged, pulling gently at the housecoat. Apparently, his words had been the right thing to say, as the detective’s rigid body relaxed and leaned back into his wool jumper. John pulled one of the large hands from around Sherlock’s knees and entwined the fingers with his own.

“See these hands?” He said gently and only loud enough for the detective’s ears to hear, rubbing his thumbs on the knuckles. “They give the world beautiful music, Sherlock. They give the world brilliant, albeit typically eccentric, experiments and deductions. Hell, they’re scarred from where pulled our daughter from the roof in the middle of a storm because they _loved_ her.” He brought the hand to his lips and kissed them gently. “Does that sound like a monster to you?”

Silence greeted him as the detective’s cogs moved in his mind and John smiled, pressing a light kiss to his curls as he rubbed warmly on his back, mumbling into the silver-tinged ebony.

“We’ll be okay, Sherlock. Just give everyone time to get over it. Let it all blow over.”

Sherlock nodded silently against the wool of John’s jumper and sighed; his warm, shaky breath reaching through John’s clothes and tickling his skin.

“I could sing to you, think that might help?” John smirked down at the detective. He felt Sherlock wince and raise his head, eyebrow cocked.

“We’re trying to _keep_ Evelyn from having nightmares tonight, John. Or don’t you remember?”

Sherlock’s eyes creased in a genuine smile as John swatted playfully at him and laughed, “You tosser!”

John leaned down and placed his lips on Sherlock’s who gratefully kissed back at the contact. In the silence, the two men heard a rustle of cloth and a soft moan from the upstairs bedroom. John pulled back and glanced at the ceiling, biting his lip in a frown.

“Well, that was a bit sooner than I anticipated. What time is it?” He looked back down at his wrist: 23:37. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and rested his cheek against the detective’s hair. “She’ll be waking up any minute. Do you want to come with me?”

The detective thought about it momentarily as another more emotional moan escaped from the stairway and he asked sullenly, “Are you sure she’s going to want to see my face after a nightmare?”

John pushed him up gently and grabbed his hand, pulling the taller man from the couch. “Maybe not at first, but she will want to see her Dad to make sure he’s alright; I’d bet you a month’s wages.”

Sherlock frowned knowingly and quietly followed the doctor up the stairs.

 

***

 

She pushed the door gently with her hand, gun burning against her fingers as she walked into the room. A thick fog covered the ground and muffled her footsteps as she walked forward towards the lone source of light in the area. It illuminated the fog with a sickly glow and the condensation swirled menacingly around her feet.

She lifted the gun and gripped her hands firmly around it, just like Daddy taught her: hands steady, mind cleared.

She aimed as she stepped slowly towards the light, watching carefully as a shadow pulled itself from the mist on the ground and turned towards her.

“I’ll shoot you. I know how.” She warned into the empty room.

The shadow turned, and exposed the face of the man named Moriarty. He bared his sharp teeth and grinned maliciously, “Oh do you now? Honey, you couldn’t shoot your way out of a wet paper bag.”

She firmly aimed for the heart as she narrowed her eyes. “I’d rather not have to demonstrate if it’s all the same to you.”

The shadow grew, its coat floating as shredded fabric flowed in the swirling fog. “How dare you!” It screeched, the sound causing her to wince at its volume. “How dare you threaten me?”

The shadow fell forward and swept her against a wall, the darkness filling her body with fear and ice.

“Let me go!” She screamed as it dragged her back against a hard wall of some sort; its hands, the texture of clouds pressed against her chest and sucked any air she had away from her.

“You think you can win? You think it’s over?!” It screeched incredulously in her face, the force of its voice causing her to cringe against the wall.

She fearlessly raised the gun and pulled the trigger, “Now it is.”

The shadow dropped her from the wall and she fell with a _thunk_ and her knees ached from the impact. She raised her hands to cover her ears as the shadow squealed and shrieked in response to the shot. It fell to its knees in front of her and recoiled in on itself, bringing its head to its chest.

“I’m not afraid of you!” She hollered, trying her best to be heard above the screaming darkness.

Suddenly, the noise stopped and she carefully glanced up at the shadow. Its dark hand had turned pale and touched gently its chest. She heard a familiar gasp as it lifted its head, tears streaming down its face.

Her heart stopped in its tracks and she felt her body stiffen, “D-Dad?”

The ebony-haired being crumpled to the floor, fog billowing around the impact, and she jerked up to her feet hurrying to the body, “Dad! No!”

She clutched her hand over the wound, blood pulsing through her small fingers. Sherlock’s face twisted in pain at the contact and he coughed. Crimson coated his lips and his broken voice scared her as it escaped his mouth, “You did this, Evelyn. How could you?”

She shook her head violently as her eyes prickled with tears and she pressed hard against the bleeding heart, “No! Not you! Please, I- I didn’t- it was an accident!”

Out of nowhere a brilliant golden being joined her at her side, thrusting his hands on top of hers. She looked up and saw John, a scowl across his face. He turned to her and stardust slipped from his cheeks as his brow furrowed in anger, “This is your fault! Why did you do this?”

She pulled her hands back and gasped at the scarlet that painted them. “No! I didn’t- I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry! Daddy, please!”

John’s golden hand pressed against her chest as she lifted herself to help him contain the blood into Sherlock’s chest, “Stay back you _monster!_ ”

She felt guilt ride through her system like a tidal wave. _Monster?_

“N-no… I didn’t… I didn’t mean… Daddy let me help!” She glanced down at her blood stained hands and raised them to press against Sherlock’s chest again.

John’s hand thrust at her, stardust still dripping from his eyes, “Stay away!” The force pushed her back, the fog parting as her feet dragged against it. Her head cracked against the wall and she cried out.

 

***

 

John steadied himself on Evelyn’s bed, sitting gently at her side as she tossed and turned underneath the covers. He glanced back at his husband and whispered into the quiet room, “If she doesn’t wake up on her own soon, I’ll wake her up, alright?”

The detective nodded and stood away from the bed, placing himself on the far side of her room in case his face would be too much for the girl to handle when she woke.

“Dad…” She moaned in her sleep, grimacing as she turned to the side and clutched the covers like a vice in her fingers.

Sherlock winced at his name as he stared out the window into the darkness of Baker Street then turned, catching John’s concerned eye as he rubbed on her shoulder lovingly.

“Dad, no… I’m sorry…”

Sherlock quirked his head and slowly stepped behind John’s back, gripping his shoulders, “Sorry?”

Her brow furrowed as she tossed towards John and her breath began to accelerate, “Daddy, please… Not… a monster…”

She moaned as her breath began to hitch and tears sparkled on her pinched eyelashes. Sherlock’s fingertips dug into John’s shoulders at the familiar word and the two men watched her toss, waiting for her to wake up. Eventually, her soft moans evolved into muffled screams that barely escaped her throat.

“Dad… Dad!”

Her father’s name screamed out of her as turned violently then shot up straight, her eyes wide in panic and her chest heaving.

John placed a sturdy palm on her shoulder, his soft expression concerned and open as he soothed her, “It’s all right, Evelyn. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real.”

She stared at him while her chest continued to heave and she grimaced in fear, “Daddy! Oh my God, where’s Dad?”

Sherlock stepped silently from behind John and knelt down next to her bed, placing his hand on her knee. His voice was soft like velvet as he reassured her of his presence, “I’m right here, love. You’re all right. Whatever you saw wasn’t real.”

Suddenly, her hand ripped Sherlock’s shirt up from his waist to his shoulders and she pressed her hand firmly against his left pectoral. Sherlock’s baffled face turned towards John who in turn shrugged his similar lack of understanding. Her trembling hands rubbed against the non-existent wound as Sherlock looked down at her perplexed. She jerked her hands towards his face and rubbed a finger on his cupid bow lips looking for blood that wasn’t there.

He stood still as she examined him, his sharp sea-green eyes tracing her every motion and every emotion that crossed her expressive face. Her hands fell back to the bed and then wrapped around Sherlock’s neck as she jerked towards him, her voice cracking as tears wracked her frame again.

“I’m sorry, Dad! I didn’t mean it!”

He gently wrapped his long arms around her back and coddled her gently as he threw a concerned glance towards John who looked as bewildered as he felt. He blinked a few times as he rested his head against her heaving shoulder, “Evelyn, what do you think you did? I’m not hurt, it’s okay.”

She coughed as she clutched at Sherlock’s neck tighter, “I shot you! I shot you and Daddy called me a monster! I- I- I didn’t mean to!”

John’s face depicted hurt as he rubbed a hand gently on her shoulder, “Darling, you’re not a monster. Dad’s fine; you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sherlock tapped her back and she looked up to him with puffy eyes, “Sit up.”

She reluctantly did as she was told and Sherlock gracefully sat next to her in her bed and tapped his chest with spindly fingers, “Come here, I’m right here. You’re all right, little dove.”

She bent her head to rest on his chest and wrapped her arms around his torso as he rested his arm on her shoulders. She calmed steadily as she listened to the metronome of his beating heart and eventually her sob subsided into silence as she fell back into slumber.

John smirked slightly as he looked from his daughter to the man leaning against her headboard, “Well, that was strange.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose to his hairline as he nodded and spoke quietly, “Indeed.”

He gestured lightly at the being who wrapped herself around him, “I don’t think I’ll be moving any time soon.”

John laughed quietly as he bent forward and over his daughter, kissing Sherlock’s lips, “No, I don’t think you will. Want me to bring you a book?”

Sherlock quirked his lips as he looked down at the mop of sandy-golden hair that covered his chest. He gently placed his hand over the locks and smiled, “No thank you. I think I’ll just stay here; maybe I’ll get some sleep.”

John smiled as he leaned back on the bed, “Good. You need it.”

The silence in the room was slowly filled with shallow breathing as the detective and the doctor slipped into slumber. Sherlock’s back and head leaned back against the headboard and his daughter rested heavily on his chest as John’s compact body curled at the foot of Evelyn’s bed.

Safety and comfort radiated from the scene and no more nightmares were had that night.


	13. Lucky Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry about the long wait guys and gals! Between school, work, and getting sick, I haven't had a whole lot of time to write. Get ready for a little more fluff, a little more angst, and a lot of shenanigans. Thanks so much for reading!

Evelyn unconsciously stretched her hand across her father’s chest as she sucked in consciousness with a deep inhalation. Her face nudged against his still bandaged ribcage as she blinked herself awake.

Her dreams had been filled with the heat of sand and the sounds of ocean waves crashing against the shoreline and she smiled against the cloth of Sherlock’s sleep shirt, hoping one day she’d actually be able to see them in person.

She wrapped her arm around his chest and squeezed gently, wordlessly thanking him for his support and she glanced down to find John curled not unlike the family pet at the foot of her bed.

“Morning,” She whispered to whoever might hear as she sat up in her bed. Neither party seemed to acknowledge her greeting, so she stretched, feeling the soreness of the exciting events still pulling at her muscles and her cuts stung as the stretching pulled at the scabs. She leaned against her headboard next to Sherlock and smiled contently listening to her fathers breathe gently in slumber until something caught her attention.

Her eyebrows pinched together as she leaned back against Sherlock’s chest and silently listened to his inhalation.

“It sounds like… water?” She murmured to herself, perplexed and slightly worried. She gently placed a hand at his neck and frowned, “No fever; no chills… Not pneumonia… Bronchitis?” She pulled her hand back and wiped it on his shirt, “God, you’re soaked! Wait a minute…”

She tried to get John’s attention by tapping her foot against his curled chest, whispering urgently, “Daddy… Daddy!”

He groaned and curled closer in on himself, swatting a hand sleepily at her foot, “Hrmm?”

She placed her ear back against Sherlock’s chest and mumbled towards John, “Daddy, I think we need to take Dad back to the hospital.”

With his curiosity peaked, John furrowed his brow and began to blink the sleep from his eyes, his voice still rough with sleep, “Why? What’s wrong?”

She motioned for him to sit up and tapped on Sherlock’s drenched chest, “Come here and listen.”

John’s navy eyes finally opened and narrowed at his daughter’s concentrated expression as her face pressed against his husband’s chest. She looked at him sternly and hissed under her breath, “ _Listen_!”

He groggily pushed himself up, the mattress whining under his weight, and stepped lightly on the floor. He took a silent step towards his husband and bent his cheek down against his chest, still half asleep.

His eyes narrowed and he frowned as he heard what Evelyn was concerned about. He kept his ear on Sherlock as he turned his eyes to his daughter who was inches from his face, “Rales… You think he’s coming down with something?”

She shook her head gently as she grimaced, “No, I think he’s an old junkie whose heart stopped on him two days ago.” She cocked a knowing eyebrow at her father and John started to scold her for her tone before her words sunk in, sobering him up in seconds as his eyes tore open and his hands flew to his husband’s damp cheeks.

“Shit!” The word escaped his lips as he shot up and nodded towards his daughter’s phone, “Evelyn-”

Before he could speak another word, Evelyn’s fingers were flying over the screen and she leaned away from the two men as she spoke to the operator.

John patted his pallid cheeks gently, his voice sharp with concern, “Sherlock! Sherlock, I need you to wake up.”

The detective groaned lightly as he woke and it sounded as if he were humming while blowing bubbles in his milk. His brilliant sapphire eyes blinked lazily as he frowned into John’s warm hands and his deep voice gurgled like his breath; only able to spit out a few words at a time before he had to breathe again, “Leave me be… I’m exhausted… You should be happy.” Suddenly he sharpened as his brow furrowed and he sleepily peered down at the doctor, “Why do I… sound like that?”

John pulled his face towards him, Captain Watson face on, and said sternly, “Sherlock, I think you’ve got pulmonary edema; we need to get you to hospital. Evelyn’s calling an ambulance, but we need to try and get you up straight and if possible, downstairs. Can you get up?”

Sherlock stilled visibly as he nodded stiffly, reaching a hand to John’s shoulder. The doctor pulled him up gently, allowing him to stand on his own for only a few seconds before the detective’s knees buckled and John caught him mid-air. “Jesus! Can’t you two stay _out_ of the bloody A and E? As much as I love being a doctor, this is ridiculous!”

Sherlock groaned as he wrapped weak arms around John’s shoulders and his tall body leaned heavily into his side. “John, I-”

A violent cough wracked his lean body and a bit of foam escaped his lips and onto his forearm. The tinge of red in it caused John to start slightly and Sherlock’s ebony curls slumped weakly against his sturdy frame, “Shit! Evelyn, help me!”

The young girl finished her conversation with the operator and wrapped her short frame around Sherlock’s, gripping his lanky arm over her shoulders, “Come on, Dad. You’re gonna be okay.”

The three stepped awkwardly out of the teenager’s room, careful to not stumble and throw Sherlock’s body down the stairs as the obstacle arose. John huffed from the extra weight against his torso, “Couldn’t you have done this _yesterday_? You know, while we were _at_ the hospital?”

Sherlock scowled into John’s shoulder, his voice still gurgling in his throat, “Forgive me for not… directing my lungs… to _drown_ me in a… timelier manner!”

Evelyn sniggered quietly as the trio finally finished the trek down the stairs and into the vestibule before the door into the street.

Distracted by the noise in the hallways, Mrs. Hudson’s fragile form flitted from her doorway into the atrium and her hands shot up to her face at Sherlock’s pale form, “Oh, dear! What’s wrong with him?”

John lifted his head at her voice and smirked humorlessly, “Oh you know, just Sherlock trying to kill himself again.”

The detective in question opened his mouth to retort John’s heckling, but his tall frame shuddered as his lanky pajama-clad legs crumpled beneath him and he coughed harshly into the floor, crimson stained foam reaching the ground to the astonishment of everyone present.

Mrs. Hudson hooted in shock while John cursed under his breath, leaning the man against the wall nearest the door and gracefully helping him slide to the floor, “Sherlock, you’re gonna be okay, just stay awake.”

But, ever the antagonist, Sherlock could only nod numbly as his heavy eyelids fluttered and the back of his head touched gently against the wall. He could hear the noises of London outside: the cars, the people, and the vibrancy that was his city. Yet, as John grabbed his cheeks and spoke into his face, the sounds were miles away; words that spread over such distances didn’t meld together to form real sentences.

John patted his cheek lightly, eyes dark with concern, “Sherlock, love- I need you to stay awake. Look at me.”

Sherlock wheezed through saturated lungs as he attempted to lift his gaze towards his husband, but his blue irises shrunk around unfocused pupils and his lids attempted to hide the embarrassment by falling down completely.

The detective slumped forward gracelessly and could barely still recognize John’s voice as his hearing rounded in his ears,

“Sherlock, wake up. Come on, stay awake!”

Much to the doctor’s chagrin, the ebony-haired man blatantly ignored him and darkness slipped over him again.

 

***

 

“That’s twice now.”

Evelyn’s head jerked up at the sudden words and she shifted in the plastic chair in the waiting room. She titled towards her father and chewed on her cheek, “What do you mean?”

John crossed his arms back over his chest and nodded towards her, his deep blue eyes stern, yet soft around the edges, “That’s twice your brains have saved someone. That’s pretty remarkable, I’d say.”

The teenager blushed and leaned back in her chair, pulling her lips tight in order not to smile gawkily, “I mean, I didn’t do anything really.”

John cocked an eyebrow at her and unfolded his arm, his fingertip brushing gently at her bandaged cheek as he teased, “Do you normally cut yourself shaving that badly?”

Evelyn turned a bright shade of scarlet as she glared at him, crossing her arms defensively and jerking back in her chair with a huff.

He rested his hand on her knee and laughed softly, “Are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to assume your hormones are flying through the roof?” He raised his eyebrows and poked at her, “Are you going to be the bearded lady on tour next year?”

Evelyn stifled a growl as she narrowed her eyes at him, staring for a moment before looking away and mumbling under her breath, “I did it myself.”

John’s expression lit up in concern, “You did? Why?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes, still not facing him, “So that I could get into the warehouse, obviously.” She glanced back at him and his expression begged for explanation. She groaned in frustration before looking towards the ground and tightening her arms around herself.

“When I got the warehouse every door had a guard so I picked one that had an easy weakness and I exploited it.” She quirked an eyebrow at the ground as she continued, “He had pink marker stains on his hand and his ring was firm in the indent in his skin, thus that meant he was happily-enough married and had a daughter probably less than five years old. When parents have small children, they’re obviously more protective so they make for easy targets.”

She pointed gently at the bandage on her face, “I cut my cheek,” then towards her torso, “and my stomach with my penknife and rubbed the blood all on my body and hair so it looked worse, and I made a little show of crying and saying someone hurt me and fell to the ground in front of him.” She waved a hand nonchalantly through the air. “Evidently, when he saw me, he could only think of his little girl and what he would do if someone didn’t help her, so naturally he bent down to help me.”

She looked fleetingly at her father and back towards the ground speaking quickly as if she wanted for all the world that the next sentence would end on its own, “So I knocked him in the head with his own gun and took his keys to break in.” She finished with a grimace. “Yeah, I still feel really bad about that.”

She cringed as she turned towards her father’s silence expecting to be scolded for her insensitivity towards people’s emotions, but instead his face was shocked and glowing and turning up into a smile all at the same time.

He huffed a small laugh out of a crooked grin and his eyes creased with honest pride, “That’s… amazing…”

Her earnest surprise was evident on her face as she stiffened in her seat, “Really? I was totally thinking you were gonna be pissed.”

His navy eyes sparkled as he suddenly wrapped his arms around her, “Well, I hope you don’t make a habit of using people, but that’s bloody brilliant!”

She smiled softly against the fabric of John’s jumper, quirking an eyebrow, “So does that mean I get to go on your cases with you?”

John laughed against her body and pulled back, giving her a smiling stern face, “You know that crime scenes are no place for little girls.”

She pursed her lips with sass, “That can also be said about old men who get kidnapped in empty galleries.”

John started and pulled back, “How did you…? Wait- how _did_ you find us?”

She groaned and rolled her eyes dramatically, “Seriously, Daddy? How else do you think? I followed you to the Gallery, hid there after it closed, and waited for you and Dad to get back.”

John dragged his hand across his cheek, leaving imprints in the skin, “Evelyn, your father and I _catch_ criminals; we’re not trying to _raise_ one!”

Evelyn sulked in her chair, “Well this _criminal_ watched two grown men get beaten and thrown into a van and _still_ managed to get a GPS tracker on them without getting caught.” She cocked her eyebrow at her father sarcastically, “Tell me again who needs to be babied?”

John growled at her and narrowed his eyes at her irrefutable argument, “Pride cometh before the fall, Evelyn.”

She huffed indignantly and the pair sat at in the hospital waiting room for a long while, neither bringing forth a conversation until curiosity gnawed too far into John’s brain.

“So, Eevee.”

“Hmm?”

The man shifted awkwardly in his seat trying to get a better position to speak from, “Erm, how did you know?”

Evelyn bobbed her head at him in exasperation, “I know a lot, Daddy. You have to be a little more specific.”

John couldn’t help but chuckle at the Mini-Sherlock with golden hair, “I’m sure you do. I mean, though, how did you know about your father’s… problem?”

The question startled her and she jerked to the side, her ears burning, “Oh. Um… Well, you remember that time I blew up the flat?”

John smiled and mirrored his daughter’s head bob, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

She crinkled her nose at him, “You know? When I dropped my water bottle on my sample of pure Sodium and Dad took me to the morgue the first time?”

John leaned back and grinned, “Ah, yes. When the corpse jumped up and grabbed you and you screamed like a little kid.”

She rolled her eyes and wrapped her arms back around her chest, “Yeah, well I guess that is relatively true. Either way, on the way there, I was telling Dad about how bored I was and how monotonous and dull my classes were and he asked me what I knew about the city.”

John cocked his head interested and perplexed.

“Well, I told him what I knew, which admittedly at the time wasn’t much, and he went on and on about how much there was to do and learn and focus on and how it was really impossible to be bored with so much input around you.”

John scoffed as he imagined Sherlock telling _anyone_ that they shouldn’t be bored.

Evelyn smiled at him and continued, “Yeah that’s what I thought, too.” Then she unconsciously hugged herself tighter. “But then he explained how dangerous boredom was for people like us: people who think differently from the general populous. He told me about when he was a kid and he showed me his track marks and made me promise to find _anything_ else to occupy my time with. It was really weird.”

Her father’s darkened face chewed on his lip as he listened. He had originally been concerned that Evelyn had come across a hidden stash that John hadn’t been made aware of yet, but knowing the truth didn’t seem any easier. His heart sank a little knowing how Sherlock probably felt to have exposed that to their daughter- someone who is supposed to think that Dad and Daddy are flawless- and yet bubbled a bit at the same time, knowing that Sherlock had gotten far enough over his cravings to be using them to prevent future addicts from starting.

She looked sullenly over at John and shrugged, “So anyways, when I heard the rales, I knew it had to be one of maybe three things.”

She flicked up three fingers, “He didn’t have a temperature and he wasn’t shivering so it couldn’t be pneumonia.” One finger down.

“I figured it could have been bronchitis, I mean, he was soaked and pale and breathing hard, but then something in my brain flicked to that day in the cab, and I knew that although it _could_ have been that, drugs and heart failure when mixed together normally lead to something a lot worse.” Two fingers down.

She turned her hand, looking intently on her lone pointer finger as she shrugged again. “Pulmonary edema seemed the only logical possibility.”

The older man chewed thoughtfully on his lip; slowly shaking his head as he traced his daughter’s thought patterns like he had done so many times with his husband, “Brilliant.”

Evelyn crinkled her nose at him again, “Why do you keep doing that?”

John smiled wearily and cupped his daughter’s cheek, “Just a force of habit, love.”

A nurse coughed gently to alert the two Watsons of her presence, “Hi there! Are you Doctor Watson?”

John stood up and shook her hand, “John, please. How’s he doing?”

The nurse smiled gently tilting her head so that she was speaking to both parties, “Surgery went well enough. We’ve got most of the fluid out of his lungs, but it’s going to be a long journey to recovery, I’m afraid. But, really, he’s fine now, just lying in bed.”

John’s eyebrows hit his hairline and he smirked, “He’s sitting still in bed? Really?”

The nurse’s face dropped only for a moment then she wrung her hands together, “If I’m going to be completely honest, sir, sitting _still_ isn’t necessarily the description I’d use. He should be fine to go home soon, but are you sure you can handle him by yourselves? He’s a little irrational and demanding since he still is in pain.”

Both Watsons nearly burst out in laughter in the unfortunate nurse’s face but were able to maintain composure for the time being and were escorted into Sherlock’s room.

“John, _please_ tell these imbeciles that I do not need to be restrained in this hospital bed! I can _feel_ my IQ diminishing the longer I stay surrounded by this incompetence!”

John stifled a laugh only just as he walked towards the bed and grabbed Sherlock’s hand. “Can’t you go anywhere without insulting the common population?”

Sherlock groaned and pushed back against the mattress, “John, these are not just _common people_ ; this is the plebian population that could not live off the streets! _Please_ take me home!”

The doctor looked down at the man teasing, “I don’t know, Sherlock. That was still rather mild, are you sure you’re not still ill?”

Evelyn snorted as she covered her face in her hands and the nurse looked from her to the two men in bewilderment.

John dragged a hand through Sherlock’s unruly hair and smiled, “All right, let’s get you home, love.”

A mountain of paperwork, a collection of diuretics and other oral medications, and a few moments longer under an oxygen mask and the Baker Street Family was finally set home, much to the delight of the hospital employees.

 

***

 

“Uncle Mycroft!”

Evelyn’s maturing squeal pierced the air in the flat she jumped up to open the door as she heard the umbrella tap on the stairs.

Sherlock groaned as he flopped back down on the couch; wincing as he did so. The surgery had gone fairly uneventful enough, but he was still sore and trying to get used to his diminished lung function.

The teenager’s small hands turned the knob and wrapped her arms around the aging Holmes brother’s torso. Age had been kind to him as his skin still retained its plumpness and color, only the deepening of his worry lines and receding hairline could be used a proof of his maturing. It had, however, also caused his waist line to thin considerably and his three piece suits hung unnaturally loosely on his tall frame.

The Ice Man melted slightly as he embraced the girl who, since he had last seen her, had grown taller and fuller.

He tilted his head down and smiled warmly towards her, “Hello, Evelyn. I hear you’ve had quite the exciting week.”

She hugged him tightly before letting go, arms still wrapped around him loosely while she looked up at him and grinning, “Not that terribly exciting. You know, unless you call breaking and entering, chasing murderers, and playing with drugs fun.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed at her beaming face, finally catching notice of the cut that had healed enough to not need covering. He placed a fingertip on it gently, “What on earth did you do?”

She rubbed at it with her palm, flushing, “Oh this? Nothing really, just stage magic. You really should have seen my shot though, Uncle Mycroft. You’d have been proud.”

Mycroft’s frown lifted at the side, “I know exactly what you accomplished this week, Evelyn. I assure you, I am very proud.”

She beamed at him again before grabbing his free hand and dragging him into the sitting area of the flat, “Come in, please!”

Mycroft nodded politely at the two men as he was pulled inside, “John, Sherlock; how nice to see you both again.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and he sat up a bit too abruptly, and had to catch his breath for a moment before he could speak again, “Hello, Mycroft. What are you doing here?”

John chided the detective wordlessly from afar as he sipped his tea in his chair, “He means ‘nice to see you, too,’ Mycroft.”

Mycroft glanced at his brother’s body ( _tired but sleeping well, hair slightly too long to be comfortable for him, lost weight again, trouble breathing; couldn’t you just stay safe for little bit, little brother?_ ) before becoming satisfied enough to continue speaking, “I just wanted to stop by and check on you, brother dear. You’ve had quite the week, yourself.”

The doctor smirked into his cup as Sherlock glared at his brother, “I’m sure I’ve no idea what you mean, nor do I assume that is your actual reasoning to come.”

Evelyn shot her father a cross look and jerked her hand on her hip, “Dad, you are being even more exceptionally rude than usual. How would you like it if I treated you like that?”

The older brother’s lips curled up as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his daughter then rolled onto his side, showing his back to the room.

She shook her head chidingly then turned to her uncle, “So why did you come by today?”

Mycroft shrugged minutely and cocked a crooked smile, “I actually came for exactly what I stated. It’s not an everyday occurrence that you learn your niece infiltrated a criminal hideout and that your _baby_ brother was hospitalized twice in three days.” His emphasis glared at Sherlock who growled at the insulting term.

The older Holmes then looked back to Evelyn and his expression softened, “I especially wanted to ask after you, Evelyn. Are you all right?”

Evelyn obviously stiffened at the question and she lowered her gaze, “I’m _fine_ , Uncle Mycroft. I regret that it had to be done, but I don’t regret for a moment pulling the trigger. I just wish everyone would get that and stop treating me like I’m a china doll.”

Mycroft’s brows touched where his hairline should have been and his smiled his politician’s smile, “Of course not, love. That was not necessarily what I was concerned with, but we can leave it at that. I just worry about you, Evelyn, _constantly_.”

She nervously cleared her throat and fluffed her scarf and turned towards a seat, clearing her bruised throat.

Sherlock shot up and only slightly repressed a snarl at what his brother was insinuating before coughing lightly and destroying his infuriated image.

John looked up in alarm as he heard the shift in Sherlock’s irregular breathing and he tutted him from across the room, “Sherlock, you’ll have to take it easy for a while, yeah? Don’t get so worked up-”

Sherlock’s strained voice cut in as he lightly placed a large palm to his chest, “John, I-”

The doctor jumped to his feet, shook a couple Baby Aspirin from a bottle on the table and handed them to him, motioning for his daughter to grab water. “You’re all right, just sit up and breathe.”

Sherlock nodded, nostrils flaring as he tried to swallow air as gracefully as possible, and Evelyn placed a chilled hand to his cheek as she pressed the glass to his hand, “Drink up, Dad.”

Mycroft stood in polite silence as the Baker Street family huddled near the couch, interested in the urgency and care and also slightly impressed at the professionalism of the two Watsons.

John gently pushed his husband flat against the back of the couch and rubbed his chest lovingly, “Seriously, Sherlock, you’ve got to relax for a while before you heal all the way. Even then, we’re going to have to take it a little easier than we have been. You’re lucky you don’t have to live off a machine, really.”

Evelyn curled next to her father on the couch and rested her head on his trembling shoulder, wrapper her arms around his, “You’re too old to be chasing criminals all over the city anymore, Dad.” She smiled wickedly at him and winked as he narrowed his eyes at her, “Old man.”

Much to the collection’s surprise, Mycroft stepped slowly towards them, cupping his little brother’s cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s forehead; something he hadn’t done in many a moon, “I see that you are in completely capable hands, little brother. I’ll leave you to them.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed bright pink and his stunned silence was palpable in the room as his older brother stood straight and saw himself to the door.

Evelyn cocked a knowing eyebrow at John and her father mouthed for her to “Shh”, smiling as he did so. She giggled softly as she looked at Sherlock’s shocked face and nuzzled her cheek into his bony shoulder.

 

“Silly old men.”


	14. Don't Let Me In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There are some rather frightening scenes in this chapter about mid-way.

_That doesn’t make any sense. Why would the flesh be so damaged if he had only been in the water? They’re not even real burns, either; more like a rash. Wait- what was the cause of death again? Asphyxia? But there wasn’t any water in the lungs right? There has to be something_ (Miss Watson.) _that I’m missing. Maybe he wasn’t actually submerged in water_ _because that I think might make more sense. I wonder if Dad has ever had an experiment with bodies decomposing in solutions. He totally has to, I mean he’s Sherlock Holmes- he’s done experiments on however many types of bloody ashes!_ (Miss Watson.) _I wonder if ashes mixed in a solution could cause a reaction against the skin. Maybe I should try that when I get home. His nostrils though, they seemed red like-_

“Miss Watson!”

Evelyn jumped at the cross inflection on her name and her bright blue eyes darted across the room. Professor Treadway scowled at her sternly and pointed back towards the diagram of the human brain.

“Welcome back to class, Miss Watson. Would you like to share your thoughts with the students? Or perhaps you’d like to finish this lesson on the interworking of the cerebrum?”

Sniggers exploded in the classroom as she turned to face her classmates.

_Only a few more months,_ she told herself. _Only a few more months till Uni and you’ll be free of the inanity of these children and teachers._ She took a deep breath and worried the tips of her fingers, nodding politely at the professor. She opened her mouth to announce her half-hearted apology for daydreaming when an unexpected voice echoed from the back of the room.

“Hey!” Alan Cornwell called from the back, tossing a crumpled piece of paper in her general direction, however missing her head. “That’s why faggots shouldn’t be allowed to have kids. They all turn out to be _freaks!_ ”

“Oohs” and gasps filled the room like smoke and everyone waited for the other shoe to drop. Ears burning, infuriated and past the point of caring about being reprimanded, Evelyn stood gracefully and stared at the professor haughtily, quirking an amused expression.

“Professor Treadway, I’m sure that even if I wasted the breath on attempting to explain my thoughts to this student body, the significance and depth would be lost on their incredibly fragile minds, so I don’t think I’ll bother.”

She turned towards the tall brunette boy in the back, eying him up and grimacing, “By the way, so sorry about the Herpes, Alan. That must not be boding well for your relationship with the Football Captain-” she clasped her hands over her mouth dramatically, “oh! I mean the completely _not male_ Jessica Hawley. I’m sure she’ll be interested to hear _everything_ you have to say.”

His face drained of all color and a girl gasped form the corner of the room. Satisfied, Evelyn had finished everything that she had wanted to say, but knew that she was headed towards the headmaster’s office anyway and decided to go for a grade finale and to explain in eloquent words exactly how she felt about the professor allowing this teenage boy to act so terribly without consequence.

She turned and walked slow, deliberate steps toward the board up front, her fingertips dragging on the desks as she passed them and her eyes narrowing at the professor.

“As for the lesson, sir, I would gladly take the opportunity to explain to the class how their teacher, who has been entrusted to educate them about the brain and its functions, not only allows is students to attack each other without reprimand, but also continues to fail, even after fifteen years of educating, to understand the difference between the cerebrum and the cerebellum.” She stopped slightly in front of the desk and cocked her head, raising her eyebrows. “Would you like me to demonstrate it on your behalf?”

Shocked silence filled the room as the professor’s bulbous face flushed and glistened with sweat, as he held out a sausage finger, trembling with rage, towards the door. “ _Out_ ,” he spat in her face.

She blinked and dramatically wiped the saliva from her cheek.

“Gladly, sir.”

 

***

 

The walk to the headmistress’ office was long but not unfamiliar. If she hadn’t always been there for inappropriate outbursts, she would have actually enjoyed Headmistress Brennan. A shorter grayish-blonde woman in her early sixties, Headmistress Brennan was kind, yet stern and Evelyn had an appreciation for her ability to command the entire school with only a few words of her authoritative voice.

Evelyn shoved her hands into her trouser pockets as she walked down the hallway, humming to herself and clicking her heels on the wooden floors with every step.

Just as she turned the corner for the Headmistress’ corridor, a muscular hand jerked on her shoulder and slammed her back against the drywall, slightly knocking the wind out of her. She felt a forearm press heavily against her collar bones and she raised her hands to push against the offending arm, looking her attacker in the eye.

Alan Cornwell stood tall in front of her, having to bend forward a little to press his entire weight against her shorter frame. His face had finally regained a bit of color, and resentment seeped from his pores as he snarled in her face, “You should learn to shut that trap of yours, freak.”

She narrowed her eyes and sneered, “Why; because I tell the _truth_?”

His enormous brows furrowed as his dark brown eyes narrowed into mere slits, warning her, “You watch your back, Watson. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Her eyes flicked over his features and a full Cheshire cat smile filled her face, “I don’t, do I?”

“You’re failing your classes because you’re strung out ninety percent of the time. Sometimes you stink of alcohol and sometimes I can smell the cocaine seeping through your expanded pores. You’ve got a vile of pills in your bag that you’ve been waiting to use for weeks now and when you go out with your buddies tonight for a ‘good time’, you’re going to finally try it out on some poor, unsuspecting soul.” She crinkled her nose, “Girls only tonight, though- you still have a reputation to keep, isn’t that right? Huh, it’s a wonder that you have to drug girls to get them to sleep with you with all of your… _charm_.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, “Perhaps isn’t not even about the girls _or_ the reputation. Maybe, you just like the fact that they can’t fight you back. God, you revolting _pig_!” She spat, cocking her head as far as she could with her limited space. “Control bothers you doesn’t it? You’re from a dominating household, yeah? You probably emulate your father because you can see how well he manipulates people with intimidation and you _like_ it.” Her cerulean eyes widened dramatically, “Oh, very good Alan; you’re fixing yourself up to be a right _psychopath_.”

She gagged as he pressed harder against her throat, his face a bright shade of scarlet and his halitosis dampening her cheeks, “I’m warning you, enough!”

She smirked, “Seriously? You still reek of that post-coital stench. Perhaps you met Robert in the showers after practice this morning? How cliché; at least be a little original about it, _come on_.”

She winced as the burly arm drove farther into her chest and throat, cutting off her oxygen supply. The bloodshot eyes of the teenager in front of her would have been alarming if she were afraid of anyone less intimidating than Moriarty.

He growled, nearly pressing his nose to hers, “You’re asking for it.”

She smiled and placed her hand gently on his shoulder smirking and gasped out, “Goodnight.”

His surprised face was quickly erased as she pressed down in between his neck and collar bone; his massive body going limp and dropping to the floor at her feet.

She swallowed the air as gracefully as possible while flattening out her uniform and jumped away from the boy’s form, mumbling to herself, “That was a _little_ close for comfort, I think. A nap will do wonders for your attitude, Alan.”

She furrowed her brows and made her best John Watson impression while holding her hips comically, “ _‘Evelyn, he’s nearly twice your size!_ ’ Yeah Daddy, I get it. I’ll be careful. I mean, at least I didn’t come home bleeding this time. That’s an improvement!”

She smiled to herself and thrust her hands back in her pockets, clearing her now sore throat, “Welp, I guess I shouldn’t hang around here all day.”

She turned on her heel and continued down the path towards the Headmistress’ office and slid quietly into the door. The clasp clicked and she heard the shuffle of papers on a desk and a warm voice fill the space from a room down hall.

“Ah, Miss Watson, come in, please!”

She groaned internally as she clicked down the hallway and peered into the headmistress’ doorway. The woman sat smiling at her desk and waved a hand toward a chair in front of her, “Sit, please.”

Evelyn reluctantly obeyed, clasped her palms in her lap and looked up respectively, “Hello, Headmistress.”

The graying-brunette smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening, “Hello, Miss Watson. I hear you’ve been creating some havoc today. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

Her golden bangs slipped in front of her eyes as she tilted her head towards the authority seated before her, “Yes, well, with only a little bit longer to graduation, I’m trying my best to not get expelled.” Her lips curled in an involuntary smirk.

The headmistress’ lips twitched towards a smile as well, but remained a thin line, “Well you’re doing a rather lackluster job then, dear. Verbal assault on both a professor and a student-”

“ _Assault_?” Her shocked voice interrupted without her consent and it startled both of them, yet she continued, “You allow Alan Cornwell to rub my face in the ground with derogatory names and you permit your professors to incorrectly lecture and belittle your students and yet _I’m_ in trouble for telling the _truth_?! How is that fair by any stretch of the imagination?”

Even through the elevated upset of Evelyn’s increasing voice, the headmistress sat still and refined, obviously not fazed by the outburst. She leveled her deep chocolate eyes with the heated deep blue of the teenager before her, speaking calmly and eloquently, “Evelyn, dear. There is a right way and a wrong way to handle things. What you did today was not just ‘telling the truth’. It was rude and unkind and you know it.”

Evelyn fumed for a moment, her cheeks burning red, before she thrust her back into the chair, crossing her arms over her chest, “Fine. It was ‘rude’, I guess, but nonetheless accurate.”

The older woman looked into her desk and shook her head sadly, “Evelyn, you are the most exemplary student when it comes to your marks and this school wants nothing but the best for you. So why must you antagonize everyone here?”

She mock-pouted and waved her arm for emphasis, “Headmistress, I don’t _actively_ attack people; I retaliate. If they would just leave me alone, I wouldn’t bother!”

She tilted her head as her soft, yet authoritative voice filled the air, “Look, dear. I know it’s hard being…” Her mouth pulled and her eyes searched the sky looking for the appropriate term.

“A freak?” Evelyn supplied. “Or were you looking for the more socially acceptable term ‘unusual’, or ‘different’? Oh! How about ‘peculiar’? That’s a good one.”

The headmistress narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak but Evelyn cut her off without meaning to. “Headmistress, I get it; I’m being difficult. And I could personally care less what kind of trouble I get in, I just can’t wrap my mind around your methods - or lack thereof- of discipline for those who target people _like_ me. You know? The freaks and geeks and anyone who doesn’t sport mini-skirts or football cleats. Or does this school not remember us because we don’t submit to the hive-mind?”

“Enough Miss Watson.” Her expression was now hard and unyielding as she held her hand to silence the girl and her military-style voice cut through the air like a knife. “I shall see you in detention after classes let out for the day. I suggest you keep yourself out of trouble until then.”

Without another word, Evelyn stood, nodded curtly at the headmistress, and removed herself from the room, leaning heavily against the wall as she exited into the hallway.

“That could have gone worse, I suppose.”

 

***

 

“One day that mouth of yours is gonna get you in _real_ trouble, Eevee.”

The brunette boy coughed as he bent forward over his desk and paper. “I’m really worried about you.”

The blonde girl smiled and stuck out her tongue at his concern, “Jeremy, I’ll be fine. I always have been, don’t be such a mother hen. You’re not a very good one.”

He chewed on his lip and leaned back in his chair, “I will be when you stop being such a troublemaker. You make me nervous!”

She cocked an eyebrow at him and grinned wickedly, “Oh, where’s your sense of adventure, dear Jeremy? You know they both had it coming and I would gladly stay an hour after classes _every day_ in order to see their faces like that again!”

The green eyes narrowed at her as he huffed out his disapproval, “You had better be glad I accidently showed up late to class today or you’d be bored out of your mind here. And I can promise you, I will _not_ be here every day to keep you company!”

Evelyn eyed up Jeremy’s form. Tall and thin like her Dad, with a similar fashion of hair, however his was straight as a board and light brown, like new oak. His bright green eyes contrasted his pale skin and darker hair and shined like brilliant emeralds from his face. High cheekbones and a thin nose gave him the look of being older, however she was actually a month his senior.

“Wanna walk with me after we get outta here? I’ve been dying to go and pick up that new book. You know; the one about the serial killer that targets school girls?”

Jeremy rolled his eyes and glared at her, “You have the most morbid imagination; do you know that?”

She laughed quietly, “So I’ve been told. I mean, you _do_ remember my parents right?”

He raised his eyebrows and thinned his lips, “Oh, I know. Mr. and Mr. Let’s-Go-Catch-Some-Criminals. It’s a wonder you haven’t turned out weirder than you _already_ are.”

She smacked his arm playfully and he dramatically over-flinched away from her blow, “Oh shush, they’re great and you know it. They’re just a bit much sometimes.”

He leaned back against his chair and drew his arms behind his head, “Yeah, yeah. Look, sure, I’ll go with you. I’ve been wanting to get a _normal_ book for a while, too. Although your weirdness might scare it off!”

She mocked offence and gasped, “Ah, so rude!” She lifted her chin and gave her best Captain Jack Sparrow impression, “My fictional books and I will have a magnificent garden party and you’re not invited!”

He mirrored her expression and laughed as she swatted at him again.

Evelyn had always loved Jeremy’s company since she met him when she was fifteen. He was open, brilliant, understanding, and loved to poke fun at her in an acceptable way as he let her reciprocate. She supposed it helped, too, that he was actually her friend without wanting to get her into bed; being gay tended to do that to people. It seemed that the only things running through her classmates’ minds at any given time were their hormones, so she had made a habit of avoiding them at all costs.

She had met him after during study hall when she watched a gaggle of teenage boys roughing him up against the walls and calling him derogatory names based on sexuality. Needless to say, she took a moment of great resolve and (physically) showed them on their way, and then she sat next to the wretched boy on the ground and let him cry on her shoulder in silence. They had been thicker than thieves since then and planned to go to Uni together: her for forensic sciences and him for biomedical. _A detective and her doctor_ , she thought lovingly and smiled still looking towards him.

“Oy, you’re gonna pay for what you did you little slut.”

She turned and suddenly was nose to nose with Alan Cornwell and a few of his cronies.

She sighed dramatically and leaned back against her chair, “Why do people always presume they know anything about my sexual exploitations as if they were any of their concern?”

The thug grabbed her bag and tossed it to one of his friends.

She scowled, “Are you serious? You’re actually going to play keep-away? What are you- five?”

The boys bounced her backpack back and forth and to spite them she sat still in her chair, arms crossed and scowling.

“Knock it off, would ya? You’re just a bunch of bullies who can’t seem to mature past their primary years,” Jeremy’s airy voice sprung out as he copied Evelyn’s demeanor.

A boy named Cedric Higgins came up from behind Alan and flicked Jeremy’s cheek, “Ey poof- who asked you?”

At that point Evelyn jerked up straight and reached out her fist to knock him across the face until a shrill holler cut through the tension, “Enough! Now all of you, go sit back in your seats!”

The teacher stood only a few meters from them, hands on her hips and permanent frown in place.

Evelyn reluctantly lowered her cocked fist and glared hatefully at Alan, hand outstretched expectantly, “My bag, if you please.”

He smiled wryly and turned to a boy named Robert Knight behind him, grabbing her back from his hands and thrusting it forcefully at her, “Watch out, Watson. You might not be so lucky next time.”

She glared at him, watching him sit across the room back at another table before sitting back at her own, rifling through her bag to check her things.

Jeremy frowned, “Did they take something?”

She chewed on her lip as she sifted through the notebooks and papers then shook her head, “Not that I can tell. God, they’re such arses. I can’t _wait_ to get out of this cesspool for incompetence.”

Jeremy smiled and touched her forearm, “This time next year, we’ll be in Uni, just remember that!”

She smiled back and pulled her water bottle from her bag, popping it open with her teeth and sipping from it, “Yeah. God help us till then!”

 

***

 

“Well _that’s_ a cheerful cover,” Jeremy picked sarcastically.

Evelyn had to agree, the cover for her selected story hadn’t been exactly as G-rated as she had expected. The cover image was a screaming teenage face drenched in crimson blood and the title read _Don’t Let Me In_. _A rather cheery title indeed_ , she mused.

She bit her lip and furrowed her brow, “Yeah. Hmm, so if I call you at three a.m. because I can’t sleep-”

He glared at her and titled his tall head towards her, “I’ll tell you to sod off and read another chapter.”

“You arse!” She squealed as she smacked him gently with the hardback cover.

Finally they reached the edge of the street that forked their paths home and Jeremy bent down to embrace the shorter teenager, “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

She gripped his coat and smiled, “It’s a date!”

He waved her off as he set on his way, pulling his coat tightly around his waist. She shoved the book in her bag and did the same. For a mid-March spring, the day had taken a rather windy turn into night and she shivered a bit before turning down the path that lead to Baker Street.

She rubbed her temple gently as a headache began to form, mumbling to herself, “Jesus, my head. Ha, guess I’ll just get home and make myself some tea.” She looked down sternly at the book in her bag, “I swear if you give me nightmares, I’m gonna turn you into one of those book boxes I’ve been seeing all over the place. I mean it!”

She smiled at herself until she felt her legs wobble beneath her frame. She leaned against a brick building and shook herself, “The hell? Maybe I’m getting sick.”

She pushed herself back into the sidewalk and walked a few more meters, lifting her gaze to read a sign, but the words blurred in her vision. She frowned deeply and furrowed her brow, “Maybe I’m getting _really_ sick.”

She pulled her phone from her pocket and slid the screen open, but couldn’t focus her eyes on the screen long enough to write any kind of message.

She blinked profusely as her groggy mind ran through every ailment she could think of. Suddenly her heart stopped and she jerked her hand into her bag pulling out her water bottle, twisting the cap open immediately. Between her eyes un-focusing and refocusing again, she saw what looked like the remnants of a small white pill at the bottom of the black bottle.

“Fuck!” She gasped, raising her arm to throw her bottle away, but catching herself before she did so and tossed it back in her bag. _Fingerprints. Maybe there’s some there._

“Fuck! Fuck! Umm, think, God Evelyn think! Who got that close to you?” Her brain muddled through the day’s events and stuck on one in particular.

“How stupid! They grabbed your bag you moron, what were you _thinking_?” She berated herself as she took another step forward and looked at her phone’s white screen, dialing her father’s number.

“Hullo?”

Her excitement paled at the unfamiliar voice. “Daddy?”

There was an awkward cough on the other line, “I’m sorry, love, I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

She apologized and the line went dead. Her numb fingers slid across the touchscreen hitting numbers that she couldn’t see and she misdialed three more people before giving up on the piece of technology and throwing it in her pocket. Frantic, she pulled a notebook from her bag and wrote in large sloppy letters that she hoped were spaced out enough to make sense to her future self: _ROOFIES? ALAN? BOTTLE. BOOKSTORE._

The last few letters of “bookstore” seemed to all end up on the same spot of the page so she weakly tossed it back in her bag.

The nighttime bustle of London ignored her individual form as the world spun around and she felt herself fall into a wall and slide to the ground as she forced her eyes wide. “Nope. Nope, come on Evelyn. Baker Street is only another few blocks away, you can make it.”

She pushed herself back to her feet and stumbled as she crossed the sidewalk into the mouth of an alley.

“Gotcha.”

A gloved hand flew around her mouth from behind and efficiently shut her up. Flustered, she bit down hard and the perpetrator howled and threw her farther into the Alley, her frame sliding against the concrete.

She pushed herself onto her knees and swiped the golden bangs from her face as she focused her vision on the man clad in black hiding in the darkness.

“What do you want you prick?” She spat, slowly pushing herself to her feet. She wobbled and felt her shoulder being thrust into the brick wall towards the inner shadow of the alley. “Lemme go!”

She heard a familiar laugh as she rolled her head to the side and murmured incoherently to herself. _Shit! Come on Evelyn, don’t give up yet. You’re already slurring, that’s not a good sign. Get out!_

She opened her eyes and looked up into the dark chocolate ones that were oozing lust and violence. Alan’s wide hand grabbed her chin as she began to scowl and forced her to look up, “You were right, Watson. We came out tonight to have a little… _fun._ ”

Her eyes widened in alarm as she heard the laughter of two other young adults and she opened her mouth to scream but red blew across her vision as a fist collided into her cheek, effectively silencing her for the moment. “Nuh uh, Watson. We can’t have anyone ruining the fun, can we? Tell me. Are you feeling lucky now?”

She felt her eyelids droop as she snarled into his face, iron on her tongue, “Gotahell.”

Alan thrust his pelvis into her and sneered, “You first.”

She collected every bit she could in her mouth and spat directly into the brown eyes that stripped her. He gasped then chuckled wickedly, “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, Watson. You’re not gonna walk for a week.”

Evelyn’s vision darkened as she felt her body being thrust onto the ground and she opened her mouth to scream again, but it was immediately covered by a sickly warm tongue that made her gag that was then replaced by another gloved hand. She gasped as pressure constricted her ability to breathe and she beat upwards with her arms as violently as possible until the two cronies that Alan brought along with him restrained her as Alan worked his mouth down her neck and his thick hands ripped at her school blouse.

She felt the burn of tears prickle in her eyes as her muffled screams travelled no farther than her throat. _Don’t panic. If they’re gonna do this, you can’t cry; then they’ll win. Oh God, this is gonna hurt! No! Stop it! You’re scaring yourself. Don’t panic! Think!_

She slid her right hand from one of the teenagers and pressed firmly at the crook of the boy’s neck that was on top of her. He collapsed and fell on her and the other boys began to panic.

“The bloody hell was that?” One of them mumbled, still holding onto Evelyn’s feet.

The other shrugged as he pushed Alan off of her and flat on the ground, checking his pulse, “Eh, he’s alright. But let’s not let that spoil the fun, ey?”

Before the new offender climbed onto her, his gloved hand slipped off of Evelyn’s face for only a moment and she screamed bloody murder, “ _HELP! HELP ME!”_ She braced herself just in time for a knee into her gut, causing her to gasp for every breath.

“You shut up, yeah? Or I’ll make this nice and _slow_ before my mate here takes a turn. Don’t worry- I’m a fair bit nicer than he is.” He hissed into her face.

Panic boiled in her chest as her vision began to fade and her brain felt fuzzy and waterlogged. _Remember these faces. Etch their faces into your brain so you can find them._ She stared at the man straddling her to the ground as she heard the rest of her shirt rip open and she felt the cool of the night air on her bare skin. _Oh God, please stop._

Her head lolled to the side as she felt the relief of pressure from her gut and heard the thunk of a fist against flesh before feeling a weight dropped next to her side. She heard shouting and felt warm hands against her cheeks and a voice drifted in her subconscious.

“ _Hey! Are you alright? Can you hear me?”_

_Baker Street. Whoever you are, get me to Baker Street!_ Her mind screamed, but her voice only spat out the first word.

“ _Baker? Baker Street? Is that where you live? Shit, I guess it’s better than nothing, come on!”_

She felt her chin dip down into her chest as the cool of the concrete on her back was replaced by the cool of the mid-March air.

Every word that drifted into her muddled brain began to slur into incoherence.

“ _Canyeralk?”_

She attempted to place her weight on her feet, but felt heavy like she was swimming through cold molasses. He knees buckled under her and she felt herself being lifted into a cradle.

“ _Jesus! Wutheppentehyer?”_

She felt her head dip behind her neck and she slipped into oblivion in the arms of a complete stranger.

 

***

 

“Oh come on, Sherlock, I’m sure she’s still out with that Jeremy kid. Don’t worry so much.”

John leaned back in his chair and sipped at his tea nonchalantly.

The detective was pacing a divot into the carpet as he worried, “John you know it only takes about fifteen minutes to walk from her school to the bookstore she likes and only another ten from there, home. She should have been here by now, even if she had decided to go to dinner with that boy!”

John chewed his lip as he thought about it, “Did she text you? Usually she does if she’s going out-out.”

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his house coat and scowled. “Yes, she told me when she was leaving the school but I haven’t gotten anything since.” He thrust it back in his pocket and gestured to his chest, “John, I- I don’t know what this feeling is- I can’t explain it.”

John cocked an eyebrow and titled his head, “What feeling?”

Sherlock grimaced as he continued to pace, waving his hands for emphasis, “Urgh! I feel like my stomach is lurching out of my skin and like my chest is plummeting into the floor. Explain!”

John frowned as he placed his cup down on the table, “Sherlock, you’re worried. It’s natural. If you’re really that concerned let’s go look for her. I’m sure she’s fine, but if your gut is telling you something’s wrong, let’s go check it out.”

Both men started at the sound of a frantic knock at the door. Sherlock, already jumpy, scowled and jerked out of the door.

His long legs bounded down the seventeen steps and his large hand yanked the door to 221B Baker Street wide. His gaze fell upon a teenage boy carrying a rather disheveled looking girl with a feminine looking bag on his shoulder.

The blonde boy jumped at the suddenness of the opened door and stammered, “D-do you know this girl? I think she lives on Baker Street, but she’s in a bad way and we need help.”

Sherlock looked back down at the girl and his heart dropped as her hair slipped from her face and revealed the familiar turned nose and full cheeks.

“Oh my God! John! John, it’s Evelyn!”

Panic welled in his chest as he snatched the girl from the teenage boy’s arms and attempted to bound up the stairs with the extra weight. The boy shut the door and rushed in after him, spotting the older man in case her full grown body became too much for him to handle.

John was just pulling the door open as Sherlock bounded in, Evelyn in hand.

The doctor’s face went white, “Oh God, what happened?!” He turned and was surprised by the stranger standing in the doorway, “Who the hell are you?”

The boy flushed and shoved his hands in his pockets nervously, the bag slipping from his shoulder and onto the floor, “I-I’m Michael. Michael Bradley. I saw her getting jumped by some punks and got her out of there, but she was already like this before I found her. I could barely get her to tell me the word ‘Baker’ so-”

“Shut up!” Sherlock’s baritone bellowed as he draped her body on the couch. He pulled open her already ripped shirt and traced a finger over the skin checking for prick marks. He repeated the action on her arms and neck and then lifted her eyelids and his heart fell as he noticed the small pupils surrounded by bloodshot vessels. His warm fingers fixed against her neck as he listened to her breath and measured both.

John rushed over to his side and repeated the motions with a more professional touch before grimacing at Sherlock and pulling a blanket from over the couch to cover her trembling body.

The detective’s lip curled and his voice darkened with animosity towards an unknown offender, “Rohypnol, I’d say. She’ll be out for hours and she won’t remember a damn _thing_!”

His hand reflexively flattened against his chest as he felt his heated breathing labor and John placed his palms on the detective’s flushed cheeks, “You’re all right, love. Breathe. Relax before I have to take care of both of you.”

Sherlock scowled at his frailty and pinched his eyes shut as he practiced the inane breathing techniques his physical therapist (John’s idea completely) had suggested.

When he was satisfied he wasn’t going to collapse, he jerked up and pinned the teenage boy to the door with his cold stare, a deep growl burning up his throat. “Who are you and how do you know my daughter?”

The boy was clearly terrified and backed against the now closed door nervously, “I- I- I’m Michael B-bradley, sir. I don’t know her at all. I- I just saw her getting attacked so I t-tried to help. I promise.”

Sherlock studied the adolescent as he trembled. ( _Twenty years of age, middle child, public school, sleeps on left side, addiction to energy drinks, left-handed, telling the truth.)_

He tilted his chin down and glared at the boy through his brows, “Tell me what you saw. Tell me exactly what you smelled, heard, felt, everything. No detail is irrelevant.”

The boy wrung his hands together as he tried to remember the scene through the shock of the events in front of him, “Erm, I was walking from my favorite coffee shop, Tilly’s, and as I crossed the street, I saw a girl get grabbed from behind by some guy covered in black. I mean, it happened so fast, I didn’t think it was actually real, but I was curious so I finished crossing the street and walked over to the alley.”

He rubbed his temple as if it would trigger some memory and continued, “It was really dark so I really couldn’t tell what was happening, but I guess I smelled rubbish, dirt, oil, blood, and oddly enough sex. That last one was what bothered me so I came up a little further and I saw some bloke on top of a girl and two holding her down and I heard a scream as they switched positions and apparently one passed out, so only two could fight me.” He blushed a bit as he remembered fighting for a strange girl’s honor like some bloody knight in shining armor. “The one I punched in the face smelled like stale cigarettes and booze, same as the other bloke who held her down. I knocked him on his arse and the other guy ran for cover.” He pointed to the doctor checking up on the girl on the couch, “Your daughter over there was already out of her wits, sir. She was covered in blood and spit- maybe it wasn’t that, but either way it was nasty- and when I shook her awake all she said was ‘Baker’ so I assumed she meant ‘Baker Street’ considering we were a couple of blocks away.”

Michael laughed nervously as he raised his eyebrows. “Hell, I didn’t even know her name till you shouted it in my face. Either way, I grabbed her bag and her and I’ve been knocking on every bloody door on this damn street in the bloody cold trying to find out who she belonged to until you finally opened up!” He paused, nearly out of breath from his rant.

He stared at Sherlock for a moment, brilliant blue eyes stern against Sherlock’s piercing silver and he waved his hand out. “Well, there you have it. That’s my involvement in all this.” He wasn’t sure where his confidence had come from, but he then crossed his arms over his chest and stood up straight from the door.

The detective pinned him farther into the wood of the door, silver eyes narrowing into slits, “You said the perpetrators ‘switched positions’. How so do you mean?”

The boy seemed suddenly uneasy and twisted his feet, “Well, erm, they were kind of… on top of her… straddling her to the ground. But I think I got there before they could get any farther than her shirt.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched with revulsion and ire, but he composed himself for the sake of the show. He waved a hand at him dismissively as he turned back to the two forms on the couch, “Fine. Thank you for your service. You may leave now.”

Michael seemed shocked at his curtness and his face dropped along with his voice, “Actually, I was wondering if I could stay? I’m kind of worried about her.”

Sherlock turned to retort something rude but John’s soft voice cut him off, “Of course, Michael. It’s the least we could do.” He stood from where he was kneeling and walked over to him, hand outstretched. “Honestly, thank you for saving our daughter. Anything we can do for you, we’d be happy to.” He tilted his head towards his husband, “Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock groaned as he walked towards Evelyn’s drugged form and Michael grasped John’s hand smiling, “Just a place to stay for the night would be nice, please. I’d just like to make sure she’s okay in the morning before I leave.”

John smiled, wrinkles creasing his eyes, “Of course. We’ll move her into our room and you can sleep on the couch. I can’t imagine either Sherlock or I will be getting much sleep tonight as it is. Would that be fine with you?”

Michael nodded earnestly, his blonde hair falling into his face.

John clapped his hand on the lad’s shoulder, “Thank you. I’ll go start the kettle.” He smiled and turned towards the kitchen calling out as he did, “Make yourself at home, please!”

Michael nodded to himself and slowly walked into the sitting room, testing out the waters before he decided to take a rather odd looking seat in front of the fireplace. He sat perched on the edge, making sure to not impose or seem impolite. He clasped his hands together as he studied the fireplace and the odd things on the walls before his gaze finally rested on the dark-haired man sitting on the couch with the girl’s head in his lap, brushing his fingers through her golden curls.

He finally gathered up the courage to speak and his voice trembled a bit as he looked at the intimidating man, “Your flat is beautiful, sir.”

Sherlock ignored his attempt at conversation so he tried again. “What’s wrong with her? Does she need to go to the hospital?”

That definitely caught the detective’s attention and his silver eyes shot a glare at the boy in his chair, “You think that if she were in need of emergency medical attention that she would not be there right now? Please tell me you are not as obtuse as you look. She’s been drugged, obviously. Rohypnol, I’m almost certain, but we’ll have to wait until she wakes to find out for sure. I’m sorry; perhaps you only know those kinds of drugs as ‘roofies’. Either way, she’s medically sound and I don’t see any signs of an overdose, so a trip to the A and E is not necessary. She’ll just have to sleep it off. She’ll be fine.”

By the end of his sentence neither Sherlock nor Michael was sure of whom the detective was trying to convince. Sherlock resumed drawing his fingers through her hair until John placed a warm damp flannel in his nervous hands. The dark-haired man then began to wipe carefully at the pale skin of his daughter; cleaning blood, dirt, and who knew what else from her face and neck.

John knelt down in front of him and placed a hand on his knee, smiling at Sherlock who only frowned at him, “Sherlock, that feeling you had was intuition and it’s almost always right. I’m sorry I doubted you. Next time, we’ll follow it right away, okay?”

Sherlock’s expression never changed, but he nodded and continued to wipe at Evelyn’s skin.

John pressed a kiss to his bony knee and rose slowly hearing the kettle singing, “She’s all right, love. Don’t worry. We’ll both be here to take care of her when she wakes.”

Michael felt warmth grow in his chest as he watched the stony man soften under the touch of the sandy-haired companion. It was as if his touch possessed a magic that broke the spell placed on his hard heart and to him, it was incredibly touching.

“How do you take your tea, Michael?”

The boy jumped at his name and looked quickly to the kitchen, “Erm, milk and honey if you please.”

John smiled and brought him the mug, sitting opposite him in his chair. They sat in peaceful silence until Michael attempted conversation with the perhaps more willing participant.

“So, erm, are you two…”

John smiled kindly and nodded, “Yes, he’s my husband. We’ve been married for… what’s it going on now, Sherlock?”

The detective’s expression was stone as he studied his daughter’s face, but John could see the blush that painted his cheeks. “Twelve years, ten months, and seventeen days.”

John chuckled, “Yeah that sounds about right.” He gestured at the girl on Sherlock’s lap. “That’s our daughter, Evelyn. As you can see,” He tugged gently at his short hair, “she’s mine. Her mother died when she was born and ever since then, Sherlock here has raised her with me as his own. It’s a rather long story, but needless to say, one day I asked him to marry me and he said yes.”

John smiled as Sherlock’s high cheeks pinched at his words, “Do you plan on telling every stranger who walks into our home our entire life story?”

John sipped his tea and raised his brows, “Only the ones who carry our drugged daughter through London at night without even knowing her name.”

Michael smiled shyly as he placed his tea to his lips, inhaling the sweat aroma of milky tea and honey. He raised his gaze towards John honestly curious, “So what is she like?” He flushed and looked back into his tea, “She’s beautiful, I just- I’m sorry.”

John grinned turning his gaze towards Evelyn, “She’s perfect, Michael. When she walks in, she lights up a room and when she sings, all the world stops to listen. She’s brave, intelligent, and steadfast and she’s a little bit of both of us old men, I’d like to think.” He then leaned close to Michael and winked, “I think she gets a little more from him than me, but that’s perfectly all right.”

Sherlock’s face was nearly scarlet with all of John’s compliments beaming from his face, “Yes, I’m afraid she has inherited my thought processes, but whether or not that is a blessing or a curse has yet to be determined.” Then Sherlock cocked a playful eyebrow at his husband, “Although she might have my mind, love, I think we can both agree she has your fist.”

John laughed earnestly and leaned back in his chair, “I think you’re completely right. And I’m sure that’s probably what got her in this mess.” John raised a knowing eyebrow towards Michael, “I suggest you not get on the wrong side of an argument with her, lad. She’ll beat you every way to Sunday and if you cross her,” he whistled low, “I’d say goodbye to that handsome nose of yours.” He turned back to Sherlock and grinned openly, “Remember when she came home with a bloody lip because she knocked that public school kid on his arse?” Sherlock smiled at the memory and John continued looking at Michael again, “She was _twelve_ and she broke a high school boy’s nose for picking on her friends.” He smiled wryly, “I truly don’t know where she gets it from.”

Michael began to feel more comfortable in his skin and in the chair which he occupied so he began to ask more questions, “So you’re a doctor?”

John raised his eyebrows at the question and cleared his throat, “Ah, yes, Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, at your service. I’m a retired RMAC doctor, so I work in the surgery down the road now. Sherlock is a-”

“Consulting Detective,” his deep voice interjected. “One of only two in the world at this point.”

John and Michael both seemed honestly surprised by the statement and the boy asked, “Who’s the other?”

Sherlock grinned and looked at John beneath his lashes, “My blogger.”

John flushed bright red and mumbled under his breath, “Tosser.”

The three men sat again in silence listening to the fire crackle in its hearth until the near silence was broken by Sherlock’s unconscious humming.

John smiled and looked at Michael, whispering, “He used to sing her to sleep when she was little, and I don’t think he even notices that he still does it.”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he leaned his head back against the couch and his Adam’s apple bobbed with the inflection of his voice.

_“_ _The day starts, the day ends, time crawls by. Night steals in pacing the floor. The moments creep, yet I can’t bear to sleep, till I hear you sing.”_

John grinned at the boy across him and decided to add the next line of the Andrew Lloyd Webber song, “ _Weeks pass and months pass, seasons fly. Still you don’t walk through my door. In a haze, I count the silent days, till I hear you sing once more.”_

His voice obviously startled Sherlock back into reality as his silver eyes flew open and he cleared his throat, “Point made.”

John yawned as he stood from his chair, placed his empty cup on his table and walked towards the couch _. “_ How about we take her to bed, love? I’ll wash her down so she feels better when she wakes up. No doubt she’s going to be terrified, so she needs to be as comfortable as possible.”

The younger man frowned looking down at his daughter’s peaceful face before gently maneuvering around Evelyn’s head and standing up.

John turned towards Michael and smiled as he called him over, “Come here and make yourself useful, lad. We’re not as young as we used to be.”

Michael stood up immediately and after crossing the distance and placing himself entirely in Sherlock’s range of fire, he carefully pulled the unconscious girl into his arms (still draped in her blanket) as he followed the two men towards their room.

Michael looked into the room occupied with bookshelves filled to the brim with textbooks, novels, encyclopedias and more volumes of random information than he had ever seen and he ventured to say something to break the silence, “So this family likes to read, do they?”

John laughed as he wrung out the flannel in the bowl of warm water, “You could say that. Now why don’t you go get some sleep, hmm? I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

Michael bowed his head slightly as he walked back into the sitting room and laid flat on the couch. It was still warm from the bodies that had only recently vacated it and as John had stated, he was incredibly tired.

Within moments, John and Sherlock heard light snores coming from within the sitting area and John smiled at his husband. “Well I guess she could have picked a worse guy to bring home.”

Sherlock thinned his lips and narrowed his eyes, “That’s not funny. I’m really worried, John. Who would want to hurt her like that?”

John mirrored Sherlock’s sentiments and dabbed the damp cloth to her neck and shoulders as he turned her into a recovery position. “I don’t know, Sherlock. But I promise, we’ll find out. We’ll just have to hope she remembers _something_ when she wakes up.”

The doctor turned back towards the girl on the bed and bit his cheek before he pressed his lips to her pale forehead and whispered, “You’re going to be fine, little bird. You’re gonna be just fine.”

 


	15. Colors and Voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient y'all. Your kind words are absolutely thrilling thank you so much for reading! <3

_Warmth. Breath. I can breathe. Smell. Cotton and cologne. Wait- smell? Not dead. Great- not dead is good. God, my head! It feels like someone shoved cotton right through my nose. Ugh. Did something crawl in my mouth and DIE? Jesus, I feel sick. Blech. Wait- focus! Cotton and cologne? Not my bed. It can’t be…? Man’s bed. Shit. Jesus Christ. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. THINK. Smell of cotton and cologne. What kind? Polo? No. Lacremeni Tulle. That’s what Daddy uses right? Oh God, Daddy. Wait- what happened? Okay, Evelyn, THINK. You feel hung-over and you can’t remember anything. You didn’t go out last night. Or… Did you? No. Definitely not. Drugged. You were totally drugged. Great. That’s just fucking BRILLIANT. “Watch your drink, Evelyn.” “Don’t talk to strangers, Evelyn.” Thanks, Dad. That’s really helpful right now. Wait- Dad. What is he gonna do when I come home? Oh my God, he’s gonna kill me. UGH- that’s going to be a bloody blast. But wait! I didn’t go out last night! I was walking home. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? Maybe? Bugger! Fuck- my head!_

Evelyn’s palm found comfort in the cotton sheets that covered her, kneading the material in her fingers as her eyes prickled with tears.

_Open your eyes, Evelyn. You’re going to have to face the music eventually. There are worse things than being violated… Right? Just tell yourself that. Yeah. Dead’s worse. You’re not dead, that’s good. Right? Don’t Panic! Are you even hurt? Relax. Breathe. If someone drugged you and now you’re in a bed, they might still want to hurt you so you have to stay still._

Her palms went flat on the mattress as her mind reeled.

_Where does it hurt? Everywhere. Not helpful! THINK. Okay, head, mouth, cheek, nose, gut, ribs. You don’t hurt inside? Perhaps… No, that’s thinking way too optimistically. But maybe? Wait? You’re not even naked are you? Oh my God, I’m so confused! Stop Panicking, Evelyn! Stop it!_

 

***

 

Sherlock’s ears peaked as he heard a light groan of consciousness escape Evelyn’s lips. He immediately shut his book with a flick of his elegant wrist and gently shook the shoulders of the sleeping John that was sitting in his lap and against his chest on the floor.

“John.” The sandy-haired man didn’t budge, so he pressed again. “John, she’s waking up.”

John sucked in consciousness with a deep inhalation and cleared his throat, rubbing his face with the hand not pinned against Sherlock, “Yeah, okay. I’m up.” The older man groaned as his old joints ached and his stiff muscles pulled under the strain of sleeping so awkwardly.

Eventually, after much aching and sore muscles pulling into action, the two men shifted forward and towards the bed, and Sherlock pulled a bin from the bathroom to the bedside. The blonde girl, now clothed in her own clean pajamas, began to stir and rubbed at her face unconsciously while grunting and fluttering her eyes open. John sat on the opposite side of her, allowing Sherlock the space near that side of the bed.

Evelyn’s head felt waterlogged and her mouth felt like cotton while her hand felt flat against the mattress then stilled. Suddenly, she frantically began to feel around the duvet and bedside table as she tried to place where she was. She coughed and shot up, bloodshot eyes darting around the room and breathing hard as she panicked.

“Where am I?” her shrill voice questioned, more to herself than to anyone else around. Her palm slid over the Mag-Lite on the bedside table and her fingers curled around the base. She jerked it up and positioned it for violence against whatever sad soul had happened to take her to bed.

She felt the chilling contraction in her jaws and tongue and she could feel her stomach turning over in her torso. Suddenly, her face jerked towards the ground and Sherlock’s quick reflexes caught her sick in the bin before she coughed again, pulled herself together and pushed against the headboard.

John placed a hand on her knee and the other on her cheek, “Evelyn, darling, you’re all right. You’re home. Dad and I are right here. How do you feel?”

Her stomach unclenched at the familiar voice and when her eyes focused on John’s weathered face, her face twisted and tears began to spill. The torch dropped from her grasp and clanked against the floor as she lunged forward to wrap her arms around John’s neck, “Daddy! Oh my God, it’s you! Jesus- what happened to me? How did I get here? I- I- I don’t _remember_!”

The doctor rubbed her hair with his cheek while he wrapped his arms around her trembling frame, petting at her back, “Shhh, love. Shhh, you’re all right. All that matters is that you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock silently sat down on the still free side of the bed and placed a warm, solid hand on her shoulder, causing her to turn to see him, “ _Dad_!”

She lunged across the small distance at him, weeping into his sleep shirt as his long arms embraced her, his hand holding the base of her head towards him, “Evelyn, shhh, you’re going to be fine, just calm down. No one is going to hurt you.”

He hummed lyric-less as he slightly rocked her frame until her tears subsided and she looked back to John, terrified, “Daddy, I feel so… _wrong_. What’s the matter with me?”

He smiled sadly as he wiped a remaining tear from her flushed cheek, “Love, you’re going to be fine. We think you were drugged last night, but you’re safe now. I’ll grab you some Aspirin, okay?”

Evelyn nodded weakly as she wiped at her face with the heels of her palms. Sherlock thinned his lips as he rested his palm back on her shoulder, his deep voice comforting his daughter, “Evelyn, I know this is a rather inopportune time, but do you think you can talk about this? Do you think you could tell me anything about what happened to you?”

Her red-rimmed navy eyes met her father’s concerned gaze and she nodded as she closed her eyes.

After one close call too many, Sherlock had helped Evelyn create her own mind palace. Perhaps not as intricate and exquisite as his might have been, but it helped her remember and file away facts that she could use to help her approach problems. Evelyn, on her own volition, had trained herself to be able to use her palace at an intermediary between her mind and reality; an ability to look into her mind palace, yet allow the sounds of the outside world to fill her ears so that she could carry on a conversation while learning about her subject. Sherlock had questioned her about her ability to balance so many thoughts at a time, impressed by its efficiency and brilliance, but words had failed her anytime she had attempted to explain. Evelyn had turned out to be just one more riddle Sherlock wouldn’t ever unravel.  

As she closed her eyes, she pushed opened the great wooden doors into a massive library; several stories high with tall ladders climbing to the painted ceiling. The scent of ancient paper and tea wafted into her mind as she stepped into the proverbial doorway. She stood straight as a board and sighed, her fists shaking near her hips as she stepped forward and pulled a book from the shelves: March. She flipped through the pages until she found the day she was attacked and cringed before taking the breath to read it aloud.

_Better now than never, I need to know._

Sherlock sat straight and placed both hands on her cheeks, fingertips massaging her temples, and he spoke deep and monotone. The aura in her library pulsed with light blue with every syllable he spoke.

“Evelyn, tell me what happened at school. Who did you talk to? What did you do? Try to remember everything you can.”

Her brow furrowed as she ran her fingers down the page, announcing its contents, “Nothing out of the ordinary until the last class of the day. In anatomy I got called on when I wasn’t paying attention and some kid called me out. He made fun of you and Daddy, so I gave him a piece of my mind. Anger. Frustration. Scent of old drywall and chalk. Professor Treadway did the same thing so I called him out on his incompetency and was sent to the headmistress’ office.”

Sherlock’s voice cut into her monologue and echoed in her mind palace, “What did you say to the boy? Who was he?”

She shrugged and quirked her eyebrows, “Just some prick named Alan Cornwell. I brought the class’ attention to his new Herpes condition and his infatuation with the football captain of our school; nothing too drastic.”

Sherlock groaned and it shook the books on their shelves, “Evelyn, your mouth-”

The glass on the wall window stained red as she growled and narrowed her eyes at the sheet before her, “Yes, Dad, I know. And if my suspicions are correct, I’m afraid it already has.” She paused and sighed, the glass’ scarlet tinge fading into a pale teal and the heat in her library cooling, before she began to trace the words on the page again. “I walked to the headmistress’ office. I remember the click of my heel on the wood and the smell of old paint. Then pressure on my chest.” Her hand unconsciously pushed against herself both in her mind and out. “Alan. He pushed me against a wall. We had an argument. I remember not being able to breathe so I pinched him.” She shrugged again. “Probably not my best idea, but it was better than the alternative. I walked to Headmistress Brennan’s office. She gave me detention. Jeremy-” She smiled, her mind palace shading slightly of light green as her body remembered her best friend’s company, “I was with Jeremy in detention. He was late to school again.”

Outside of her mind palace, the shuffle of John’s feet against the carpet caused Sherlock to look up and shake his head, so John stilled and placed the Aspirin and the water on the bedside table. Sherlock shot John a look of true concerned and then went back to studying their daughter his baritone filling her mind once more with cobalt pulses, “Did something happen in detention?”

Evelyn grimaced both inside her mind and on her face, “Yeah, I asked Jeremy to go to the bookstore with me and Alan and a few of his friends started teasing us again. He stole my bag and tossed it between his friends. I ignored them until they tried to hurt Jeremy then the professor called on us and sent us back to our seats.”

Sherlock’s voice pierced through the atmosphere, the throbbing aura deepening in shades of blue with his worry, “Did they take something from your bag? Did they add anything?”

Evelyn shook the book in her hands frustrated, “No. I checked. It was just really weird. I guess they’re just stupid teenagers.”

Outside her mind, John paced over to the bed without sitting down and his voice caused her to jerk, the aura in her library changing from blue to gold with the change of voice, “What happened after that?”

She shrugged pressing her face closer to the book in her hands as if she could find something hidden in the pages, “Well, when detention was over Jeremy and I went to the bookstore, but-” her brows furrowed as she frowned, “I- I can’t remember anything besides buying my book. The smell of coffee, the sound of turning pages; I can feel Jeremy’s smile when he hugged me goodbye, but that’s it.” She flipped the paper to expose a blank backside for the rest of the evening. “There’s nothing else, it just… _ends_.”

She flipped the page over irritated at the blank sheet of paper betwixt her fingers, and she slammed the covers together, frustrated, the windows of her mind palace staining scarlet and fuchsia as her temper flared, “This doesn’t make any sense! Why can’t I remember anything? There’s nothing! No walk home, no changing of clothes; the last thing I remember is Jeremy’s hug.” She growled in exasperation, “But I _feel_ it! I feel it throughout my entire _body_ like I’m drowning in oil. ”

 “Feel? What do you feel, Evelyn?” Golden hues pulsed in the air, then were spontaneously smothered in scarlet and heat as her eyes jerked open and she heaved as her breath caught in her throat.

_“Fear!”_

Her navy blue eyes were dark with frustration and glistened with tears. She clutched at her sleep shirt, her fingers wrapping around her bra straps, “Fear, Daddy! I remember feeling _terrified_ , but I don’t know _why_! It’s sticking to my skin like a patina from an oil bath and I feel like I’m _drowning_ , but I can’t remember what scared me!” Tears streamed freely, not from despondency, but from animosity; hatred for her lackluster mind and for whatever caused her to lose her brilliance.

Sherlock had jolted back at her sudden outburst, but as she seethed, the breath hissing from her clenched teeth, he rubbed at her cheekbones and gently pressed his forehead to her burning one.

“Evelyn, you’re all right. We’re done. You needn’t think about it any longer.” His silver green eyes softened as they made contact with hers.

Her nostrils flared as Sherlock’s brows parenthesized his eyes, “No, Dad. I _need_ to know. I can’t be _afraid_. I refuse! I-”

Her breath caught in her throat as an alarm went off in her mind, alerting her to her normal crisis actions. Her eyes jerked open wide as she pushed herself from the mattress.

“My bag! I would have left myself a note! I always do that! I write notes when I feel sick; I need my bag!” She pried herself from the bed, her legs jiggling under her weight until she fell gracelessly to the floor. Immediately, John heaved her up straight and wrapped an arm around her, leading her into the sitting area.

As she crossed the threshold, her eyes fell upon the sleeping figure on the couch and she prickled, wrenching herself away from her father and stumbling towards him. The sleeping boy was without protection as she grabbed his shirt in her fists and shook him, “Who are you and _why_ are you in my house? Did you have something to do with this?!”

His blue eyes jerked open with horror as he looked at the young girl’s face and he stammered, hands raised in surrender, “Jesus! I’m Michael! I’m Michael! God- what is up with this family being so violent?”

John rushed behind her and pulled her fists away from the boy’s shirt, clutching them to her torso as he hugged her to his taller frame, “Evelyn, relax! Don’t hurt him! He helped you get _home_ last night!”

Her face went sour and she spat, still struggling against the doctor’s grip with groggy arms, “Why is he still _here_ then?”

Michael flattened his shirt as he sat up on the couch, “I just wanted to make sure you were all right! You were in a bad way when I found you.” He sniffed indignantly, “You know, a simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

She snarled at his audacity, “ _Thank you_ , but I don’t need your help!” She shoved her father’s arms off of her and stumbled to her bag next to the door, cursing as she unzipped the backpack and rifled through its contents.

The boy blinked the remaining sleep from his eyes as he ran his fingers through his hair, grinning, “Wow, you guys weren’t kidding.”

John smirked as he crossed his arms over his chest, “Nope, she’s a firecracker.”

Sherlock stood in the doorway as he watched Evelyn’s frustrated face morph as she tore through her bag. After finding nothing that helped, she dumped the bag’s contents out on the floor and sifted through them, “There has to be something here! I can’t imagine I’d let myself get sick without taking notes! Dammit!”

She threw her empty backpack against the doorframe and curled her knees to her chest, her hands waving in exasperation, “This doesn’t make any bloody sense! I _know_ what happened, I just can’t prove it! That contemptible sewer rat drugged me, but I don’t know how! God- How useless! Urgh!” She banged her head backwards against the door, immediately recoiling from her already present headache.

Sherlock quietly stepped closer to her and rubbed her forehead, pushing her bangs from her face. “Let me look, love.”

She nodded her flushed face as she curled in on herself against the doorframe, bangs falling back into her eyes.

Sherlock’s elegant fingers plucked several books to the side flipping through the pages, searching through anything and everything for these notes that could have been taken. He frowned as most notes regarded her classwork and pertained to nothing of great interest. He picked a book by its spine, turning it over in his hands until he grimaced at the cover.

He crinkled his nose as he held it up to his daughter, “Do you actually read this kind of rubbish?”

She lifted her face and smirked, sniffing as she wiped her cheek on her bare arm, “I think you’d actually like it. I guarantee you won’t deduce the end. You never can with her stories; that’s why they’re interesting.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and John snorted in the background. The detective turned quickly and stared intently at his husband, “Is that a dare?”

John laughed as the book slipped from his grip and smacked with a light _thud_ against the floor; earning him a glare from the detective.

Evelyn hiccupped a smile as Michael spoke out for the first time since he’d been violently awoken, “Hey, what’s that thing right there?”

The book then became the spotlight of the room; a small ripped and folded piece of paper sticking out between the pages midway through the book as if it had been shoved in there in a moment of haste.

Sherlock’s long fingers plucked it from its home between pages and held it up; unfolding it as he attempted to read it. He furrowed his brow and chewed his cheek as he glanced sorrowfully at Evelyn, “I can’t read this at all, love.” Noting her sulk, he amended, “It’s all right; we’ll figure something out.”

She lurched at him and jerked the paper violently from his hand as she slumped back against the wall, screwing her eyes as she tried to decipher the wretched scrawl:

_K∞E$_

_ALPW_

_BOTHLE_

_BOOKSUHF?_

She scowled, “Jesus, you’d think I could have done a little better than that!” She laughed in spite of herself before turning the paper towards the ground and pulling pen from the stacks of books and papers.

“I’m not giving up just yet. This can’t be _that_ off.”

She pulled out a clear sheet and copied the letters cleanly onto the new paper. Chewing on her bottom lip, she began to trace the letters with her pen, not actually touching the paper, just memorizing the curve of each letter.

John opened his mouth and managed to get a “What are-” out before Sherlock silenced him with his hand in the air, his eyes watching Evelyn’s every move like a hawk.

She traced the first word several times before exaggeratedly writing it on the next page; the word embellished and strange, but legible all the same: ROOFIES.

Her face lit up as she held the note to her father, “Look! See! I knew it! I _knew_ I was drugged! Ha!”

One by one, she traced the illegible letters into words of meaning: ROOFIES, ALAN, BOTTLE, BOOKS? The mumble of letters that sat all upon each other made it impossible for her to decipher the last word completely, but she beamed with enthusiasm as she held up the paper for Sherlock’s scrutiny.

His eyebrow quirked as he traced the legible words with his fingertip across the page, “You think this Alan character drugged you with a bottle? What kind? A vile or a bill bottle or…?”

Evelyn grabbed at her head again and sighed dramatically, leaning back against the door with a huff, “I don’t _know_ , Dad! If I _knew_ what I meant then I’d be tracking him down, not making this mess!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes towards her until John cleared his throat and stepped towards the mess all over the floor, picking up a black athletic bottle through its ring with a pen, “If you two would stop playing ‘battle of the brains’, I’d like to point out the obvious.” He hummed pointedly at the two gaping mouths in front of him.

He held it out towards Evelyn, “Your prints are already on it. Is there anything inside?”

Evelyn held out a shaky hand and twisted the lid while her stomach churned inside her. Sure enough, the flick of the lid exposed slight remnants of white power stuck to the side of her container and her heart sank. _I really was drugged, Jesus Christ._

She aimed the mouth of the bottle at Sherlock who peered in for only a moment before confirming her suspicions, “I’d say there’s a good chance a chemical test will prove that to be Rohypnol. Now to figure out if we can prove this Alan suspect actually committed the crime.”

Evelyn pinched her eyes shut and covered her ears; expelling the outside world from her view of her mind palace. She picked the book of “March” from its new home on the floor and flipped to the relevant page once more.

She read through her conversation and the voices rang in her ears.

_“Are you serious? You’re actually going to play keep-away? What are you- five?”_

_“Enough! Now all of you, go sit back in your seats!”_

_“Watch out, Watson. You might not be so lucky next time.”_

The last sentence rang out in her own voice as she read it aloud to the audience of 221B Baker Street.

“‘Watch out, Watson. You might not be so lucky next time.’ That’s what he said during detention; that despicable _prick_!” She spat, her fist driving into the ground in front of her now crossed legs. Her head jerked forward towards the boy near the couch and she jumped to her feet (albeit incredibly wobbly).

“You!” She said, pointing her finger at him, “Why are you here? You say you ‘found’ me. Where? How? I have bruises- did you give me them?”

Michael’s face went bright red as he felt three sets of sharp eyes pin him to his spot and he stammered, “What? N-no! Look at my hand!” He lifted up bruised knuckles as proof, “I punched some bloke in the face for topping you! Is that a crime now?”

Evelyn paced near him, crowding his space as her eyes stripped him of his walls, “Why did you intervene? What matter was it to you? Where was I?”

He rolled his eyes at her, not moving back against her intimidation, “How the hell am I supposed to know? I didn’t even know your _name_! I just heard you scream in a back alley and saw some guy on top of you and… well I…” He lowered his gaze and shifted uncomfortably.

She looked him up and down again, taking in every movement he made and every sentiment he emitted. _Shame. Self-loathing. Pity. Protection. Personal connection to crime. Too close to be older woman, rules out mother, must be… oh._

Her blue eyes softened, but her face held firm and stern as she asked, “Are you the middle child or the oldest?”

The question caught all three men off-guard and the boy stumbled on his words, “Erm, middle- out of three. Why does that matter?”

Instead of words, she held out her hand expectantly for his. His brow furrowed in confusion before he grasped her hand and shook it firmly.

She bowed her head momentarily as she spoke, “I understand and I’m sorry for what happened to her, but I thank you for saving me. Let’s… try this again, shall we? Could you please explain everything that you saw? I’ll try not to fight you, I promise.”

Sherlock at once understood what had transpired in her mind and his chest warmed at her intellect _and_ tact. She had become quite the master of deduction and still had the people skills to implement them efficiently. _Good girl,_ he thought smugly to himself.

Michael was taken aback and nearly stopped speaking all together, but he gently sat down on the couch and stared at the fireplace opposite, “What? How did you…? I don’t… You know what- I probably don’t want to know. You people are _weird_ to say the least.”

John snorted at Michael’s bluntness but was soon cut off by his story.

“I was walking down near Tilly’s and I heard a scream so I went to check it out. I saw three blokes all pinning a girl,” he gestured to Evelyn, “to the ground. One of them passed out- I don’t know why- and I punched the other one square in the face.” He smirked at the memory. “You were all bloody and bruised and half out of your mind, so I honestly thought they had beat your brains out. All you said was ‘Baker’ and then you passed out on me.”

Evelyn flushed and steepled her hands to cover her cheeks, “The three men, what did they look like? If I shower you a picture, could you pull them out of a lineup?”

Michael shrugged and nodded, “Yeah, sure. I mean, I could definitely pick out the bloke I punched and the one who made you scream, but I don’t think I could honestly pull out anything about that third one.”

She waved her hand dismissively, “No matter.” She pulled out her phone where it sat on the coffee table and dialed into it.

Her desired contact picked up on the third ring.

“Hello, sweetheart!”

She smiled at the familiar weathered voice, “Uncle Greg, something happened last night and I need to talk to the police.”

John raked his hands through his hair, “Don’t you think you could _warn_ us before you call in the cavalry?”

Lestrade’s tone switched from pleasure to controlled panic, “What happened, Evelyn? And don’t you dare tell me you hid a body. Tell your father that and don’t bring it up again.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes even through her smile, “I’ve better sense than to confess to a Detective Inspector. No, I was drugged last night and someone tried to assault me.” Her eyes flickered to the blue-eyed boy beside her, “Someone saved me, but I need it looked into. I have what I suspect to be the weapon, an idea of whom attacked me, and a few witnesses.”

She heard shuffling on the other side of the line as if Lestrade was moving from a bed or couch, “I swear to God, whoever tried to hurt you will never see the light of day as far as I’m concerned! I’ll be over there as soon as possible. Are you all right? Are you at home? Where are you dads? Did he hurt you?”

She shrugged, “A few bumps and bruises, but my witness came by in time to stop anything from escalating past that.” Michael flushed as he felt her two fathers’ eyes bore into him. “They’re both right here; they took care of me last night so I’m fine. Really, Uncle Greg; I’m okay enough for someone who was just drugged and assaulted at least.”

Lestrade’s voice was curt and professional with a tinge of sentiment, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Be safe.”

 

***

 

True to his word, within the next half-hour, the circus of the New Scotland Yard had arrived on the steps of 221B Baker Street. Of course, Mrs. Hudson was flustered at all of the hustle and bustle, but quickly made use of herself by preparing tea and biscuits for every officer that crossed the threshold into their apartment.

Lestrade’s pencil was fast on the paper as he listened to Evelyn’s every word, “Evelyn, what is the last thing you remember before you blacked out?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose as she repeated her story, “Uncle Greg, I told you. I was in the bookstore with my friend and when he left, my brain went foggy. But when I started getting ill, I wrote down these notes.” She provided him the two sheets of paper: one with nearly illegible scribbles and one with understandable words. “I could tell I had been drugged by the way I felt, I guess. I had a good idea of who it was and I knew how he did it. Jeremy can confirm his threat, as well as the teacher from detention- if she’s not as dull-witted as she seemed to be- and that bottle _should_ have his prints on it, since I don’t remember him wearing gloves when I saw him take my bag.”

Sally Donovan, who although had been offered a myriad of promotions, had decided to stay ever-loyal to DI Lestrade and was currently interviewing Michael as Greg placed a warm hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re safe, Evelyn; but you _need_ to be more careful.”

She rolled her eyes, “Uncle Greg, you cannot tell me that this was my fault. There is _literally_ nothing I could have done to prevent this. And shame on you for blaming the victim!” She scolded, snapping her finger up at him.

He huffed at her point but still rubbed his thumb into her shoulder muscle, “I know, I just… I worry about you, love. I’ll let you know what we find, but _please_ be careful.” With that he bent forward to kiss her cheek and rose, turning to speak to Donovan who had just finished her interview with Michael.

John padded across the sitting area to join his daughter, wrapping an arm around her as she leaned into his chest, “How are you feeling?”

She huffed, but her shoulders relaxed against his frame, “I mean, I could be worse. I feel sick and I hurt, but I’m not as bad as I could be.”

John’s deft fingers raked through her curls and he leaned his cheek against the crown of her head, “I know, love. You’re handling it very well.”

Her body went rigid as her voice shook, “N-not really. I freaked out. I panicked and if I had been somewhere besides home, I could have done something really stupid.”

Her father pressed his lips against her hair, “No, no darling. It was scary and I can’t imagine anyone handling it any better than you did. You were very brave and very clever and I’m very proud of you.” His arm hugged her closer to him and she could smell the remnants of his cologne and aftershave on his housecoat. “I know you’re still frightened, but it’s gonna be okay. Dad and I will take care of you.”

Evelyn could feel the concern and affection radiate from his skin as he spoke, his breath making her hair dance in front of his lips, “I love you, Evelyn.”

She felt her throat constrict and she heard it in her voice, “I love you, too, Daddy.”

 

***

 

“Absolutely not.”

Evelyn sniffed as she drew her lips to her cup, still smiling as she sipped the tea down her throat, “Coffee is absolutely atrocious. If it tasted anything remotely close to how it smelled, it might be a different story, but as it is? Nope- no favorite kind.”

Michael warmed his hands over the ceramic as he smiled at her. The seats they had taken by the window kept them safe from the madness of the late March rains, but still allowed them to enjoy the views of the precipitation. The smell of coffee beans wafted through the air, and Evelyn tucked a lock of golden hair behind her ear nervously.

The boy smirked, “Okay well this is a pretty shoddy game of twenty questions. Your turn!”

She crinkled her nose as she wracked her brain for questions she didn’t already know the answers to. Her eyes lit up as she found one, “What’s your favorite color and why?”

Michael sniffed and cocked an eyebrow, “Seriously? That seems a little pedestrian for you, don’t you think?”

She leaned forward over the table and whispered, “You have no _idea_ how much you can deduce from something as _pedestrian_ as a favorite color.” When he pursed his lips she narrowed her eyes playfully, “Try me.”

He narrowed his eyes back at her as he leaned back in his chair nonchalantly, “Blue.”

She rolled her eyes, “Of course it’s blue, but _why?_ ”

He pursed his lips to conceal his smile, “Because it’s the color of the ocean and the sky and it’s the most calming color I can think of. Tell me, Detective Watson, what can you deduce about my heart now?”

She placed her mug back on the table with a clink and steepled her fingers under her chin, eying him with scrutiny that he had in the past few weeks become accustomed to.

She quirked an eyebrow in challenge, “Do you really want to know?”

He smiled ran a finger over the rim of his cup, “Try me.”

She smiled wryly and rattled off every fact that she could pull, “Your favorite color is the color of the sea, yes, but not of the sky. The sky is actually only a reflection of the Earth’s seventy percent covering of water. Although you love the sea, you’ve never seen it, thus you yearn for it even more. Blue is considered a color that is attractive to people who are more sympathetic towards their fellow man, faithful in character, and naturally friendly; all of which we both know you are. Now faithfulness; obviously that is an integral part of your character and would intrinsically explain your fascination with the color blue, but why? You’re the older and yet younger sibling, family is important and loyalty is important as a result. Blue is the color of honesty and determined spirits, so it would make sense that someone as steadfast as you would find it appealing. Steadfast? ‘Why would I say that’ you ask? Well, you risked your life to save a complete stranger if only for the ability to say that you didn’t stand back and do nothing when you saw someone being wronged. Very much appreciated, I assure you. Blue also represents excellence and regality, things which you strive for in your daily life and would explain your desire to work in a ‘successful’ field such as medicine, even if it may not be what you want to do for the rest of your life. You’re also a man, so you are predisposed to find an attraction to blue because it’s been imposed on you since birth that it’s a masculine color. Total bullocks, really. But that also shows that you wish to remain a part of the group, not wanting to upset the status quo. You find comfort in schedules and normality, yet you do like the up rise of chaos occasionally.”

His jaw was slightly slack as she crinkled her nose once more, “Although you were incorrect about its calming qualities. Green is actually the statistically more sedative color.”

His bright blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at her, finally regaining his jaw muscles, “Blimey, that’s wicked.”

She smirked as she sipped on her tea again, “You should let my Dad interrogate you. You’d feel utterly naked.”

He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes at his coffee, “You’re telling me. Imagine the reaction I got when he found you passed out in my arms! I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life.”

She swatted his forearm and laughed, “He’s a little much sometimes, that’s for sure. You know, you’re really bad at this game.”

Michael shrugged, “Well not everyone can have a genius and a doctor for fathers- _not_ my fault I don’t think like you!”

Evelyn’s phone buzzed on the table and she slid it unlocked.

 

From: Jeremy

_I seeeeeeeeeee you!_

She wrinkled her nose and gazed outside the windows into the pouring rain.

 

To: Jeremy

_Shall I flash a beacon at you as you try to swim across the street? :P_

She heard a familiar ping and gasped.

“Gotcha!”

Suddenly she squeaked as two hands grabbed her shoulders and shook.

In shock, she swiveled around and faced her sopping wet best friend who subsequently shook his head free of water as he pulled a chair towards their table.

“Heya! The name’s Jeremy,” he announced, holding his hand towards Michael as he smirked, “I’m the best friend, so you’re gonna have to get my approval if you wanna tap that.”

Evelyn went bright red and smacked his chest, “Jeremy! Shame on you!”

Michael only smiled and warmly grasped his hand, “Nice to meet you, Jeremy. I’m Michael.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened as Evelyn’s narrowed, knowing his tendency to tease mercilessly, “Michael? _THE_ Michael?” He shook his hand violently and grinned comically, “It’s truly an honor to meet _The_ Michael! Oh, let me just say, I’ve heard _so much_ about you and your terribly heroic deeds!”

Evelyn flushed and slapped her hand over his mouth, looking pleadingly at the boy across the table from her, “Oh, pay him no mind! It’s actually been deemed legally insane and has lived in padded walls most his life. Not to mention he’s a complete _tosser_!”

Jeremy stuck out his tongue on her palm and she squealed, rubbing his saliva off on his shirt from her hand. “That’s disgusting!”

He smiled wickedly and crinkled his nose, “But effective!” He turned back to Michael who was beaming at the hilarity of the two in front of him, “But no, seriously. You’re pretty cool, as far as I know. Thanks for following not being a dick and keeping her safe.”

This time, Michael blushed as he slid a glance towards the fuming Evelyn, then he winked at Jeremy, “Really, it was my pleasure.”

Jeremy’s airy voice squeaked in laughter, “But seriously, how _old_ are you? You look ancient!”

Michael narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips indignantly, “Unlike you little kids, I’m twenty.”

Jeremy clapped him on the back and laughed, “All right old man, give us our wisdom on Uni! We’re only a little bit away now!”

The blonde boy smiled and leaned back in his chair explaining the pros and cons of the local universities and when he explained his major, Jeremy perked up and actually became engaged in the conversation, jerking a pen from Evelyn’s bag and writing notes about scholarships, teachers, and classes.

Evelyn sipped her tea and closed her eyes, etching the conversations in the pages of her mind, developing memories and auras to describe her experiences for the day.

This Michael character that had walked into her life and literally picked her up from the ground was strange she thought. He was sturdy, strong, and yet he seemed to always be afraid to speak his mind as if anything he said might offend ears that hear him. He reminded her of John: quiet and yet resilient and it warmed her chest.

She listened to the patter of the rain, the lull of her friends’ voices and the hum of the bookstore as she smiled to herself.

_Warm. Happy. Safe._


	16. You Are My Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and I apologize profusely for the time between updates! <3

Golden sand burned in the Arabian sun as John’s fatigues blended into the drab background and his boots pressed into the soil, every step sinking in farther than the prior one.

“Hey, Doc!”

John turned abruptly as he recognized his companion’s voice.

Braden, the young bloke from Cornwall waved as he hollered for John; a smile on the young face not yet weathered by the pains of war.

John turned his entire frame on his heel as he placed his gun at his side and smiled back. He caught a glimpse of himself on the window of the Panther vehicle in the gleaming sun, noticing the dark tans on his hands and grinned as he felt the warm sun tattooing him darkly.

Braden opened his mouth to speak again, but whatever words he might have meant to say, John would never know. His ears peaked as he heard a minute _click_ when Braden stepped forward and he dropped down to his knees, his arms rising over her head as he braced himself for the deafening blast that he remembered from all those long years ago. ( _John_.)

He screamed as a wave of intense heat and force threw him meters away, his eyes widening in fear as he viewed the aftermath of the IED. Red. White. Crimson _everywhere_. _God, why did this happen?_

He felt a hand grip his shoulder and he turned reluctantly before he noticed the familiar set of wild curls and cheekbones; the sea-green eyes feral and blown wide in alarm. No words were spoken, but the hand pulled at his shoulders, hauling him from the ground, taking his hand, and dragged him into an all-out sprint.

The dark greatcoat looked incredibly unworldly in the brilliant shine of the sand from the sun; a single black dot that ran across the desert and stuck out like a sore thumb. The pale face turned towards him and the Cupid’s bow parted slightly, a single syllable emitting from it, ( _“John.”_ )

The sandy-haired doctor couldn’t contain the warmth he felt in his chest as he gazed into the brilliant eyes, even if they _were_ running from the enemy forces, for John would run forever as long as Sherlock had his hand.

A crack shot through the air and John flinched, stopping for only a minute to check his body for wounds. Finding nothing, he glanced at Sherlock. The detective stood still, his face twisted in disbelief and agony as he touched a trembling hand to his chest, pulling back to find the shock of crimson on his elegant fingertips. With a forlorn look towards John, his knees buckled beneath him and his body crumpled to the ground; his greatcoat flourishing out around him like a funeral veil.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” he screamed, slipping on the sugar sand as he tried to grip at his lover’s coat. Sherlock clutched at him, painted hands staining his fatigues with scarlet as his unruly locks slumped against John’s chest. He felt his stomach turn to ice as the man in his arms gurgled and choked with the traitorous blood that filled his throat, slipping eerily from his lips onto his alabaster skin and down his pulsing throat. John tried in vain to wipe it away with his palms, cradling the man in the jacket in his lap, tears streaming freely down his face.

Without warning, he cried out at the burning in his chest before his tearful eyes glanced down at the crimson not stained _on_ him, but pouring from _within_ him. He could feel the scream die in his throat as the fire crept from his chest into his neck and head. ( _John!_ )

His hand clapped on the wound and as he drew it back, surely enough, cerise painted his fingers with a warm syrupy consistency, oozing from his palm down his wrists as his strangled mind tried to grab a hold of what had happened.

 

“ _John! Wake up!”_

 

John shot forward like a bullet set free from a barrel, feeling as if he had just run a marathon from the way his sleep shirt clung to his sweating chest and how his dry throat burned with every raspy breath he sucked in. His bloodshot blue eyes darted around the room, his hand unconsciously clutching at his chest as he heaved.

The world faded from bright sun in the sand to the dark confines of 221B Baker Street. Distant mountains morphed into bookshelves and the sunlight faded into the gentle glow of the moon gleaming in through the curtains. His free palm kneaded in the sheets and he felt the sweat slide down his thrumming neck.

“John?”

Sherlock’s concerned deep voice pulled John back into reality like a buoy thrown out to sea; the baritone beckoning him like a lighthouse, easing him back into the world that was not Afghanistan. John felt a large warm hand rub nonsensical circles on his back as another gently grasped the hand he gripped in his shirt.

John finally found his voice, shaky and raw and the word broke in his throat, “Sherlock?”

The detective’s pale eyes, rimmed with the shock of being shaken from sleep, softened as a sad smile curved his lips and the hand that was on John’s chest crept towards his flushed cheek, “I’m right here, love. It was just a nightmare; nothing more.”

John felt the back of his eyes prickle with the heat of tears and he grimaced, pushing his face against Sherlock’s chest as he silently expelled the offensive liquid down his glowing cheeks.

Familiar with the protocol, Sherlock held him steadily against his torso; his thin, yet firm arms shivered as they kept John’s convulsing, yet silent sobs at bay. Words were never spoken here: a silent truce that Sherlock and John had made long ago. Nightmares stripped them both of all dignity and neither would speak until some walls had been rebuilt around them to keep their demons in check.

A long silence hung in the air, and as John began to simmer down, one of Sherlock’s hands pet at John’s military-styled hair; flattening the damp hair against his scalp as his chest hummed against his husband’s cheek.

“ _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”_

John cocked an eyebrow and hiccupped against Sherlock’s chest, his hand gripping into Sherlock’s shirt like a vice, “That’s a bloody awful song. Have you ever actually _listened_ to all the lyrics?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his chin rubbing affectionately against John’s hair, “Ah, yes is is actually quite terrible. But you settled approximately thirty-seven seconds earlier than last time, and you smiled a little- don’t lie, I felt it- so perhaps it’s not all _that_ bad.”

John sniffle-hiccup-laughed against Sherlock and hugged against him tighter.

The room was quiet for a long moment; the silence only broken by the quieting of John’s labored breaths until they matched Sherlock’s in tempo and the rustle of cloth against the sheets as Sherlock’s hand continued to mollify him. The detective’s hand rubbed against the nape of his husband’s neck as he spoke softly, almost purring into his ear, “Was it the Fall?”

John was quiet for so long, Sherlock thought he might have fallen back asleep in the awkward position until, “Hmm?”

“You called out my name,” Sherlock mumbled, the deep droning of his voice vibrating through John’s torso, “that usually means you’re watching me jump.”

John winced at the unfortunate memory; every prod at it still ripped at the stitches that the wound caused, even as it was decades old, “No… Not the Fall.”

Sherlock hummed a question, curious, but open to allowing John to keep it to himself if he so preferred.

The doctor’s arms curled closer around the detective’s body till his knuckles turned white and his skin nearly transparent, “You were there… in Afghanistan…” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shirt, voice breaking on the country’s name. “I watched the IED blow on my watch. But then I saw you…” His cheeks flushed against the cloth, “You tried to pull me away and we almost made it. But… but you were shot. Your face- your coat- the… _blood…_ It was just so… _real_.”

Sherlock’s spine stiffened in John’s grasp for only a moment before he pressed his lips lovingly to John’s brow, “Much to your imagination’s chagrin, John, I am right here. Flesh and bone- no bullets.” Sherlock gently plucked John’s wrist from his shirt and flattened the smaller palm against his chest, just above his obviously beating heart. “See? No metal; just cardiac muscles reacting to electric impulses from my brain, pumping blood through my arteries and back through my veins.”

John’s fingertips bit slightly into the alabaster skin that covered the man he loved so deeply. “I know, Sherlock. I’ll be okay.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and splayed his long fingers through John’s short hair again, “Well until you are, I suppose I’ll just be forced to numb your brain into submission with appalling renditions of nursery songs.”

John groaned, but without any real animosity as Sherlock lay back against the pillows and John followed suit, allowing his mind to soften around the edges and finally dip into oblivion as Sherlock’s voice caressed him with lyrics of sunshine until it echoed in his ears.

 

***

 

“Jesus, I can’t see anything.”

Evelyn complained as she waved her hands through the palpable fog. She could feel the squish of damp ground underneath her feet, but had disciplined herself not to look out of experience. Her right hand hovered over the small of her back, fingertips brushing over the cool metal that still felt alien on her skin.

_“Watch your back, Watson!”_

She crouched down at the sound and pulled the Sig from her waist, aiming it at the gray smoke that surrounded her. The echoes of the perpetrator’s voice differed in position and she spun around and her heart caught with every new reverberation.

“Who’s there?” She called, her voice falling flat on the thick air.

_“Freak!”_ another voice called, closer to her body and she pulled the trigger.

The shot vibrated the fog around her and the crack of the bullet rang in her ears.

A whitened face pulled near her and snarled in her ear, the chill of its breath causing her wispy hair to dance into her face, _“You might not be so lucky…”_ The face jerked in from of her only inches from her nose, _“Next Time!”_

 She squealed and pulled the trigger again, recoiling from the immense noise that seemed to engulf her. The fog threw insults at her as she crouched on the balls of her feet.

“Stop it!” She screamed, her hands covering her ears against the abuse and she felt the side of her weapon against her temple.

Suddenly, the fog moved as its own entity and threw her flat on her back, suffocating her with its thickness, _“You’re gonna pay for that!”_

“Let me go!” She cried, aiming the gun in front of her at the fog that she could wipe away with her hand, yet it kept pushing her farther and farther into the ground.

Without warning, an incredibly familiar face drew hot breath against her cheek, _“Did you miss me?”_

She let loose the remaining bullets into the mist as she rolled away from the dark hair and eyes that followed her. She clamored to her feet and ran, and the fog turned a brilliant shade of gold, _“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”_

“Daddy?” She screamed as her feet kept moving forward. Determined to find the source of her father’s voice she pushed forward through the fog until she heard a deep scream and the fog glowed blue with every syllable, _“John! John, wake up!”_

“Wake up?” She questioned herself before her feet fell on nothingness and she tumbled into an abyss with a shriek.

 

***

 

“Jesus!” She squeaked as she swatted her hand into thin air looking for ground as she rolled off the side of her bed. Her forehead knocked against the nightstand, her hip slammed against the floor with a dull _thunk_ and her pillow flopped over her body as she recoiled on the ground.

She pulled herself up and leaned her back against the wooden furniture as she cradled her throbbing head in her hands.

“Well, _good morning_ , Evelyn!” She said sarcastically, rubbing at her temples and raising her eyebrows. She lifted her right hand and rubbed against the knot in her head and groaned lightly, “ _That’s_ gonna hurt in the morning.”

She wriggled her toes and hummed in discomfort before she reached up to the bedside table and her fingers fell on her slick phone. She pulled it down and winced at the bright light before she slid it unlocked and composed a new message.

 

To: Jeremy

_Hey, you up?_

Sent: 04:29

 

She groaned as she looked at the “sent” time and rubbed tenderly at her head again. She pressed her phone onto her mattress and gently pushed herself from the ground and stood, one foot jumping into the air as she wobbled to keep her balance.

Long fingers flicked at the lamp next to her bed and she flopped against the mattress, recoiling slightly as her head knocked back. She rubbed her hands down her face and moaned lightly until a _ping_ softened by her covers rang in her ears.

She fumbled in the sheets until she found her phone again and slid the message open.

 

From: Jeremy

_Up high as a kite. Want some? ;)_

Received: 04:35

 

She rolled her eyes until she remembered her headache and smiled, tapping against the glass screen.

 

To: Jeremy

_Don’t you know it!_

Sent: 04:36

 

Evelyn supposed the Jeremy was wide awake after all as the messages seemed to come only moments after she sent them.

 

From: Jeremy

_Will I have to throw rocks at your window and share my stash or are you gonna meet me halfway?_

Received: 04:37

 

To: Jeremy

_Tossing pebbles at my window? How romantic._

Sent: 04:39

 

From: Jeremy

_You know me- tall, dark, and handsome. It’s a wonder I’m still single, really. So what do you waaaaaaant? I’m sleeeeeeeeping._

Received: 04:42

 

To: Jeremy

_Nothing really, just wanted to irritate you._

Sent: 04:43

 

From: Jeremy

_Did you have another nightmare? I told you not to read that crap, now bugger off!_

Received: 04:45

 

To: Jeremy

_I wish they were about the book. You bugger off, you tosser!_

_Sent: 04:46_

From: Jeremy

_Oh, shit. You OK? Do you wanna call me?_

Received: 04:47

 

To: Jeremy

_No, I’m fine. Just wanted some terrible humor to ground me._

Sent: 04:49

 

From: Jeremy

_Well God knows I’m the flaming king of bad puns and awful jokes! But seriously, are you OK? He’s in jail, you know. Exactly where that bastard is meant to be._

Received: 04:52

 

To: Jeremy

_Yeah, I’m fine. I just have a sadistic brain. I feel like my brain is trying to recreate what happened since I can’t remember it, and sometimes I hear things that I don’t recall ever hearing before, but they make sense. It’s just kinda trippy. Lol_

Sent: 04:55

 

From: Jeremy

_Whatever you’re on, can I have some? :D_

Received: 04:58

 

To: Jeremy

_Arsehole_

Sent: 05:00

 

From: Jeremy

_Selfish Prima Dona_

Received: 05:02

 

To: Jeremy

_Haha. Rude! Do you wanna grab some coffee in a couple of hours?_

Sent: 05:04

 

From: Jeremy

_You mean I’ll order coffee and you’ll berate the poor cup until I throw it at you? Lol sure I’m down._

Received: 05:06

To: Jeremy

_Touché. Text me later. And thanks._

Sent: 05:08

 

From: Jeremy

_Now don’t get all mushy about it! Stupid sentiment, right? Lol_

Received: 05:12

 

Evelyn smiled at her phone and felt heat in her chest as she stared at Jeremy’s message.  Things like that, his ability to crack terrible jokes and incorporate her incredibly difficult personality into their conversations, were the reasons she loved him so much. He was the cooling Monoammonium phosphate to her blazing fire and she warmed at the sentiment of his text.

 

To: Jeremy

_Stupid Sentiment, indeed. :)_

Sent: 05:15

 

 

***

 

_Peculiar things never happen on peculiar days,_ Evelyn surmised. _They always happen on the absolutely dull, monotonous, ordinary days that they have no business being on. I suppose that’s what makes them so odd._

She thought this as she raised her hands to her head with a look of pure vacancy on her face. Her navy eyes narrowed at the barrel leveled at her nose and her ears peaked at the strangled sound of terror that happened to escape Jeremy’s lips.

“What do you suppose you’re going to do with that?” She asked coolly, her shoulder blades rubbing against the coarse brick on the side of the coffee shop. The morning was still new; the sun nigh over the horizon and the still-lit streetlamps glinted off of the metal in the thief’s hands. The shop they had decided to patron for the morning was in a part of town that besides the usual customers didn’t attract much foot traffic and gave the criminal the advantage of few-to-no witnesses and a lack of CCTV coverage.

The assailant tipped the gun towards her and it trembled, “I _said_ shut up! Give me whatever you have!”

Evelyn cocked her brow and as Jeremy caught it, he shook his head numbly mouthing “ _No”_ at her. He slowly reached into his back pocket and a shaking hand produced his wallet for the scrutiny of the thief.

Evelyn’s lips curled at the edges as she spoke confidently, “What are you on? Heroin? Cocaine? It has to be some kind of stimulant- look at how you’re trembling, you poor soul. You must be crashing pretty damn hard to be resorting for your first time to burglary.”

In a fit of rage, the masked criminal narrowed his eyes and knocked the tip of his barrel lightly against her forehead to establish his upper hand. “I said _shut… up…_ Before I _make_ you.”

She smiled wryly, “Oh, I don’t think you’ll be doing anything of the sort with that kind of grip, love.”

Much to the criminal’s chagrin, Evelyn’s small hands clapped against his and turned the gun. She had been right in her deduction as the gun slipped easily from his fingers and she pointed it away, but she winced as she heard Jeremy’s scream and the crack from the gun as a bullet was expelled from its chamber and it ricocheted into the brick wall.

A moment of adrenaline and noise filled the alleyway and after the proverbial smoke had cleared, she aimed the gun at the criminal’s face with his own thumb on the trigger; her spine rigid and her body tense.

“Not gonna pull it again, are you?” She said calmly as Jeremy glanced up from his crouch on the ground. His green eyes were gleaming with frightened tears and they widened as his eyes caught hers. The navy blue was filled with fire and her determined glare was empty of the kind-hearted girl he loved and it frightened him. Suddenly she shifted her attentions back to the criminal. “Now I’m going to take this gun and you’re going to go away. Is that clear?”

The perpetrator slid his hand from beneath hers and raised them to his head in surrender. His eyes caught hers for a moment and he saw the exact same emptiness that Jeremy had noticed. It seemed to chill him to the bone and he took off running down the alley.

Evelyn stood rooted to the spot, still aiming the gun at an assailant that was no longer there and Jeremy reached out cautiously, placing his fingertips on her hip. She jumped at the contact and aimed the barrel at him.

He jerked away and slowly raised his hands up, wet eyes focused on hers and attempting to ignore the gun between them. His voice trembled as her eyes narrowed on him. “Eevee, y-you’re okay. It’s just me, J-Jeremy. Put it down, p-please.”

At the sound of his voice, something inside her consciousness seemed to break and her eyes softened and her jaw slacked. She finally noticed the gun in her hand that was aimed at her best friend and she gasped, her eyes jumping back and forth between the metal in her hands and the terrified green eyes that pleaded with her. She fixed the safety on it and placed it gently on the ground, kicking it smoothly towards him, “T-take that away from me!” She threw her back up against the wall and slid down the coarse surface, pulling her knees to her chest.

His gingerly grabbed the gun and it felt foreign and heavy in his hands. He placed it carefully in the bag he carried and set it down on the other side of his hips. Leaning his back up against the wall, he gently placed a long arm over the girl’s shoulder, “Eevee, you all right?”

She took a steadying breath and nodded as she hugged her knees tighter towards her chest, “Yeah, Jeremy. I’m sorry I aimed that at you. I just-” she let out a trembling breath, “I saw _him._ ”

The lanky boy curled up next to her and pulled her against his chest, “Who ‘him’? Alan?”

She shook her head and leaned against his shoulder, her golden locks spilling over her cheeks as she sighed. She wrapped her fingers around the key that dangled from her neck and exposed the piece of metal to her friend, “Moriarty.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, “That’s the most atrocious name I’ve ever heard. I bet he was a right wanker.”

She smirked and nodded against the fabric of his thin jacket, “You could say that.” A sigh escaped her lips as she relaxed against him, “I just… I saw his face when I heard the gunshot and it freaked me out a little.” She raised her brows and huffed out a humorless laugh. “Talk about PTSD.”

Jeremy smiled and rubbed warmly on her upper arm, “Yeah well, you seem to be able to handle yourself pretty damn well. You know, besides the whole pointing a gun at your best friend and nearly making him piss his pants thing! I didn’t know you could do that!” He laughed and the warm vibrations of it warmed her torso, “Remind me not to piss you off!”

She sniffed out a smile and lifted her eyes to meet his, quirking an eyebrow dangerously at him, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He mirrored daring her face, “Oh, _but my dear_ , there is so much I _do_ know about you!” His long fingers poked at her side and she squealed swatting at his secured hands.

“You- ha! You- stop that- you cruel and immoral- ha!- immoral fiend!” She choked out between laughs.

“Say ‘mercy’! Say it!” He called in her ear as she wriggled in his embrace.

“N-Never!” She smiled as she raised her hand and flicked his nose and he immediately let her go.

“Geeze, low blow! So rude!” He cursed as he rubbed tenderly on his aching snout.

She wrapped her arms around his thin chest and arms and smirked, “You started it!”

He looked at her with watery eyes, then tapped his forehead gently against hers, “You all right, little birdie?”

She grinned stupidly at the name he had coined after hearing John say it once, “All right. Just ready for some tea, I’d say. I think I’m going to have an _incredibly_ long day.”

Jeremy slid away from her and jumped to his feet, extending a hand down to his friend. He spoke with a slight wink and curve of his lips.

“Sounds good. I can’t wait to hear what abuse you’ve prepared for my drink of choice today.”

 

***

 

“What’s this?”

Michael picked up an old looking piece of oval-shaped clay with little lines and divots all over it and turned it over in his hands.

Evelyn looked up from her bed and the shock was immediately evident on her face as she leapt to her feet and rescued the artifact from her friend’s untrustworthy grip. “Stop _touching_ things, would you? Jesus! What are you- five?”

Michael shrugged and smirked at her concern, “You never answered my question. What is it?”

She rolled her eyes at him and placed the object daintily back in its home on the bookshelf, “What does it _look_ like to you? It’s an ancient Egyptian scarab. It’s _thousands_ of years old and you nearly _dropped_ it!”

The young adult furrowed his brow as he swiveled her chair away from her desk and sat down, “Why the hell do you have an ancient Egyptian scarab? Aren’t things like that supposed to be in museums?”

She blew the dust away from the scarab and the books behind it and smiled, narrowing her eyes at Michael, “I know people.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her and pursed his lips, “You _know_ people?” He scoffed, “I _know_ people, too, but I don’t have anything fancy like that.”

She waved dismissively at him, “You know normal, _boring_ people.”

Peeved, he sat forward and grimaced, “Boring people? You’re boring!”

Evelyn tuned and stepped quietly towards her bed, turning towards him as she placed a hand on her hip and smirked, “I’m the most _stimulating_ person you know, I’m certain of it.”

Michael stood up from his chair and sauntered over to her, placing his larger hand over hers on her hip and leaning in closely towards her face. His left hand reached up to cup her cheek as his voice deepened and his eyes grew dark with dilated pupils, “Most _‘stimulating’_ person I know, huh? I think we’ll have to find-”

“Hand check!”

Sherlock’s deep voice boomed through the door he slammed open and his teal eyes landed directly on Evelyn’s flushed face.

She thrust her hands and pushed Michael a meter away, before tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “Dad!”

Sherlock smiled and raised a large hand in a short wave, “Hello, Evelyn.” He turned and nodded at the boy who tried to pick at something on Evelyn’s table to avoid eye contact with the detective, “Michael.”

Michael sheepishly met Sherlock’s eye for a moment before lowering his gaze back to the imaginary notch on the tabletop, “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock smirked and raked an elegant hand through his unruly curls, fluffing them away from his brow, “Now, based on the expressions you two are wearing, I’m not certain that I know any jury that wouldn’t call out the verdict as ‘guilty’.”

Evelyn huffed and crossed her arms around her chest slumping against her bed, “Dad, we’re not doing anything up here. We never are when you come to do your pointless ‘hand checks’.” She raised her hands palm-out to her father’s scrutiny.

Sherlock smiled wryly, “Oh, now I don’t think that’s entirely true, little bird.”

He nodded towards Michael while still keeping his eyes on Evelyn’s face, “Based on the tin of mints in his left pocket and the outline of condoms in his wallet on the right, and the erection that Michael is doing an incredibly lackluster job of hiding accompanied with his dilated pupils, I must assure you that my concerns are factually based and not unwarranted.”

Evelyn’s eyes blew wide and she jumped from her bed, gasping in horror at Sherlock’s audacity, “ _Dad!_ ”

Michael’s face blushed an awful bright red as he gasped in tandem with Evelyn, “Mr. Holmes!”

The detective raised his eyebrows and raised his hands in a mock-surrender, “Oh Evelyn, your powers of deduction aren’t that far behind mine so you cannot possibly tell me that I’m incorrect.”

Evelyn stomped towards him, turned his body around and pushed his back till he was out of the doorway, “Out! Outoutoutout!”

He turned and raised a pointer finger at her before she slammed the door and leaned against it.

Sherlock sniggered to himself and padded down the stairs and back into the sitting room where John was lounging on the couch, a book splayed open in his lap. At the sound of Sherlock’s feet against the floor, he raised his head and looked at his husband over his reading glasses.

“What was all that about then?” He asked plainly as he turned the page.

Sherlock gave him a side look and smiled satirically, “Evelyn and Michael were about to have sex.”

John nearly choked on the words he heard as he shot up and spluttered as he coughed, the book falling gracelessly to the floor, “I’m sorry- _what?_ ”

Sherlock shrugged and walked towards the couch, sitting half-way on the couch’s arm, “Our daughter was about to copulate with an adult male, so I persuaded them otherwise.”

John was pulling himself to his feet as he glared at Sherlock, “What did you _say_?”

Sherlock smiled and tugged at John’s jumper with long fingers until John stood in front of him, “I merely,” he waved his hand in the air as if searching for the correct terms, “made them aware of our presence.”

John glanced up at the ceiling warily as he chewed his cheek and then back down to the man who was now leaning his brow against his chest, “Well, do you think it worked?”

Sherlock huffed a silent laugh against him, “I made them both well aware of Michael’s intentions by pointing out the obvious, so I’d say so; at least for today.”

John smirked and ran a hand through Sherlock’s silver-tinged curls, “You did not call that poor bloke out on what I think you did, did you?”

The detective planted a kiss at the base of John’s jumper-covered collarbone before looking up and smiling, “I may have.”

John raked a hand through his short, graying hair and laughed quietly, “Good. Perhaps I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

John jumped forward as he felt a brisk pinch against his backside, and Sherlock stretched up almost to John’s lips, “What do we say about assumptions, John?”

John crinkled his nose and pressed his lips down against his husband’s, “Hypocrite.”

Sherlock’s lips moved a hair away from John’s as he spoke, “Do as I say, not as I do. And don’t be an idiot. My intention was not to harm their relationship,” he screwed his face as he looked for the terms again, “just to postpone the inevitable.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and huffed, “Don’t remind me! I do _not_ want to think about that.”

The detective pressed his lips against John’s thrumming carotid artery as he purred against his skin, “I could focus your attentions on… _other things_.”

John felt the warmth in his chest descend as he rubbed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, “Oh?”

Sherlock grinned impishly and stood straight up, nearly knocking John off of his feet, “Yes! We have a case, John!” He turned in towards the kitchen, his housecoat billowing out behind him.

Flabbergasted, John stood for a moment blinking and he clamped his still hovering hand shut before turning towards him, “Oh. Erm, what kind of case?”

Sherlock flitted around a few experiments that were scattered on the kitchen table as he spoke, “Stolen heirlooms, John. It doesn’t seem like an entirely interesting case, but there is an element of intrigue that it possesses.”

John rubbed unconsciously on the back of his neck as he leaned against the arm of the couch, “Closed room case?”

Sherlock swiveled and his gleaming eyes caught John’s as he grinned, “Yes!”

John smirked and hooked his hand on his hip, “And you haven’t been on a case in a grand total of two weeks so you’re about willing to do anything?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and pouted, “Not necessarily. But it is something _interesting_.”

John rolled his eyes and smiled, “Alright. When are we headed out?”

Sherlock returned the expression and padded into their room, narrowing his eyes playfully as he passed John, “As soon as you get dressed, Doctor Watson.”

The doctor’s brows rose to his hairline as he pivoted off the couch and into the room, “You mean _right_ this second? What about Evelyn? Mrs. Hudson is out on holiday!”

The detective grinned and tossed a jumper at John, who subsequently dropped the article of clothing as he tried to catch it, “Yes, John! She’ll be fine; she’s just as capable as we are of keeping herself out of trouble.” He pulled up one corner of his lips as he pulled on the deep purple shirt that John loved so much on his skin, “Besides, she will be headed down the stairs and off towards that Jeremy-boy’s house in approximately…”

He held out the word as John looked towards the ceiling at the sound of moving feet. The sound descended the stairs and they heard the bell-toned voice pop into the flat, “I’m off! I expect an apology when I get back, Dad!”

John shook his head as he heard another set of footsteps join hers down the stairwell and the sound of the front door slamming, “Well, you’ve done it now. She’s going to be a bloody nightmare till you apologize, you know that?”

Sherlock lolled his head to the side and groaned mockingly, “Oh, John, what is it like to live in that mundane little brain of yours?” He ruffled his hair with both hands as he half-heartedly checked his appearance in the mirror-like window. “Stop worrying. By the time we get back, she won’t even remember our little… _spat._ ”

John laughed as his eyes opened wide in disbelief, “You and I both know that’s a total load of bollocks!” He raised one finger after the other to punctuate his points, “For one, she’s seventeen and we’re her parents. Everything we _do_ is wrong before she changes her hormonal little mind. Two, she’s _your_ daughter.” He waved his arm dramatically towards Sherlock, “She never forgets _anything_.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lip, “Yes, well; it was worth a shot.”

John crossed his arms and coughed; raising an eyebrow at his husband pointedly until Sherlock finally raised his hands theatrically in surrender, “ _Fine_! I’ll… say something to her. Now get dressed! I’ll text her and tell her we’ll be out.”

John huffed a small laugh to himself as he changed clothes and raised his navy blue eyes at Sherlock as the detective grabbed his hand and dragged him impatiently through the door.

 

“Come along, John! The game is on!”

 


	17. Rosa Negra

“Are you aware that your granddaughter is stealing from you to support her drug habit, Mrs. Olenheimer?”

The elderly woman’s eyes opened wide before she blew into her tissue again.

John’s head jerked towards Sherlock’s and his voice went deep and soft as he hissed, “ _Sherlock!”_

Sherlock paid him no mind as his eyes deduced the person before him. ( _Seventy-three years of age, died hair two weeks ago, dentures not fitting properly in mouth, COPD from half a century at least of smoking, arthritis in hands, osteoporosis causing spine to hunch, cat hair on trousers points to oldest cat having a dietary problem, widow, father was part of Nazis based on pictures in hall. Interesting.)_

Mrs. Olenheimer’s thick German accent became even more incomprehensible as she choked on her sobs until she fell back into complete German. “What do you _mean_? _Esther_ _ist eine gute Frau! Sie würde nie in solche Schwierigkeiten beteiligt. Sie willKrankenschwester werden_!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he paced on the floor. John gently wrapped the older woman’s hands in his as she sobbed and he rubbed her back gently before standing up to meet Sherlock at the large window that peered into the front yard. He thinned his lips as he crossed his arms on his chest, “You know, I might be of more help if I had any idea what she was saying.”

Sherlock groaned and lolled his head towards John, “It’s the trivial nonsense that every parent says when they’re confronted with their child’s- or in this case grandchild’s habit. ‘No, she’s a good girl; she would never!’ ‘No, he’s a responsible young man.’” He waved a hand flippantly and straightened his posture, “All of it is nonsense and not of any use to me.”

John stood in silence at his detective’s side before curiosity got the best of him and the question jumped out of his mouth before he could stop it. He cleared his throat and adjusted his footing, “So, erm, what did your parents say?” He raised his eyebrows in an attempt at casualness, “You know? When they found out?”

Sherlock shot him a dark look and narrowed his eyes at John before looking back out of the window wordlessly and settling deeper into the scarf still tied around his neck. John raised his hands palm out and changed his glance towards the ground, “I get it; none of my business.”

“ _Woher wissen Sie,_ _es ist_ _Esther_?” Sherlock turned at the sound of the woman’s old voice, now raw with tears. Her wrinkled face sank into her withered hands as she tried to control her sobs.

Sherlock prickled and he padded quietly towards the safe behind the portrait ( _How predictable and boring.)_ and pointed her attentions to it, “It’s been wiped clean, Mrs. Olenheimer. How often do you do that? I’m fairly certain your housekeeper does not normally come into contact with the safe, yes?”

She nodded dumbly as he continued to explain, “Well, whoever _did_ try and clean this did a relatively shoddy job of doing so. Look at the streak in the pattern. Means they were either in a hurry, anxious, or both. Also the pattern leads me to believe the perpetrator had hands about ten or so centimeters across. The same as the gloves sitting near the keys on the table near the entrance. Specifically, your granddaughter’s gloves if the style is anything to go on.” He pointed a long finger towards the fingerprint scanner of the safe. “See this residue? It’s make-up. From what I can tell, it looks like M.A.C. NC-twenty cosmetic powder foundation; the same your daughter uses based on her picture in the hall. She blew a little into the scanner, and then pressed a flat surface- presumably a glove- and the scanner took the previous print as hers allowing her access. These machines are incredibly easy to manipulate, Mrs. Olenheimer. I would consider exchanging systems if your daughter is going to remain occupying your residence.”

The detective stood straight up and waved his hand dismissively towards her. “I believe, Mrs. Olenheimer, that you should consider searching through the local pawn shops. I am certain that you will be able to locate them there since, based on the bloody tissues in the loo, your daughter’s habit has taken a turn for the worst and she needs a considerable amount of money quickly to keep her afloat.”

John cleared his throat pointedly from the window and Sherlock groaned as he took the hint and attempted to visibly soften his face towards the older woman still keeping his appendages close to his person and his body language tense, “She’ll need your help if this is the case. Talk to her friends and figure out where she’s been travelling to and where she gets her supply from. Then get a hold of her parents and prepare them for the inevitable conversation about rehab.” He sighed and fixed his scarf around his neck. “It’s not going to be easy. But it will be in her better interests. We must be going, though. Good day, Mrs. Olenheimer. Come along, John.”

He bowed his head to her politely and pivoted on his heel out of the door, leaving John to mumble his condolences and apologizes to the older woman. He handed her a card with his name and number and asked her to call him if he could be of service in any way and followed his husband out onto the lawn, having to job down the driveway in order to catch up to the tall detective.

His arm shot up and grabbed Sherlock forcefully by the shoulder, forcing the taller man to turn and look at him, “What was all that about, Sherlock? Even _you_ aren’t normally _that_ rude; you’re on a bloody roll today!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged out of John’s grip, “It’s nothing, John. I explained what happened and that is all she asked of me. I told her what she needed to know about her granddaughter and hopefully she’ll have the good sense to put what I said to action.”

John placed his hand at Sherlock’s neck and rubbed the skin until he looked down at him with narrowed eyes and thin lips. The doctor’s face softened as he spoke gently with a concerned expression, “Don’t do that, Sherlock.”

The detective crinkled his nose and huffed indignantly at him, “Do what?”

John’s hand travelled up to cup his cheek, but Sherlock’s expression didn’t waver at his touch. He pursed his lips as his eyebrows parenthesized his soft navy eyes and his gentle voice was saturated with concern and worry, “You’re shutting me out. Something about this case has you spooked. What is it?”

Sherlock’s façade of apathy flickered for a moment before he rose to his full height and turned away from John and towards the cabbie that was waiting for them, “Let’s go, John.”

John jumped a few feet to catch up to Sherlock’s long legs and wrapped a hand around his arm, jerking him back towards him, “Stop it, Sherlock. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but don’t do this.” His hand gripped tightly around the fabric of Sherlock’s greatcoat. “Don’t push me away.”

The detective narrowed his eyes on the doctor before John’s unwavering presence caused Sherlock’s shoulders to loosen and his stern face lightened, “This case, John… it’s just terribly familiar. I don’t like it.”

John’s head tilted to the side in confusion, “‘Familiar’? How so?”

Sherlock’s pale blue eyes darted between the cab and the man holding him hostage in the lawn before he sighed and relented, “The picture in the hall that I spoke of; it was only about a month old judging from the timestamp and I didn’t see _any_ signs of addiction in it. Her skin was supple, she was a healthy weight, her eyes sparkled, and arms were exposed and no track marks were visible, which means that she’s had to have developed the habit within the last three weeks.”

The detective shifted uncomfortably in his shoes as his gaze fell away from the doctor, “Developing a habit doesn’t take that long, but developing one strong enough to require that kind of money should take longer than that. This is an affluent family, John. These are trust-fund children and money isn’t hard to come by for them, so it wouldn’t make any sense for her to be stealing expensive heirlooms unless she needed far more than she could afford on her own dime.”

John shrugged, “Yeah, that makes sense, but what’s got you so excited about it all? This isn’t the first case we’ve ever had relate back to drugs; and not the worst one by far.”

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed up again and his narrowed eyes pierced through John’s, “If what I’m suspecting is the case, it might very well be.” He waved a hand at the house to enunciate his point, “A young woman who has ties to money is stealing from her grandmother to support a habit she has just developed? It means she’s run out of quite a sum of money incredibly quickly. Did you not see the blood pricks on the tissues in the bathroom? She’s already shooting up at home and her blood is incredibly thin; I’d say she was anemic from the amount on those tissues and the amount of bandage wrappers that littered the area around the trash, but she doesn’t have any iron supplements so I don’t think she’s had the problem very long. All of that means she’s been tied up in some kind of drug that is expensive and far more addictive than the normal street one and I think I might know what it is and who deals it.”

John’s spine stiffened and his grip on Sherlock’s coat tightened as his now stern lips formed around words he didn’t want to speak, “An old dealer of yours?”

A silence fell between the two men for a moment before the detective nodded numbly, “Yes. I know him as Alexandre Ruiz, but I’ve never seen his face. He’s the top of an incredibly intricate drug ring and only the higher ups ever meet him. He has his own blended drug he calls ‘ _Rosa Negra_ ’ or in English, ‘Black Rose’. It’s the most volatile and dangerous compound I’ve come into contact with and although the Yard has him on their watch, they can never get enough evidence that actually links him to the crimes in order to arrest him.”

John whistled low as he tilted on his heels. He chewed on his cheek before he gazed back up at his husband, “So what’s the plan then?”

Sherlock seemed taken aback at John’s willingness to proceed, but made no comment on it, “I would like to find Mrs. Olenheimer’s granddaughter’s dealer. Perhaps we could trace them back to-”

“No,” John interrupted curtly.

Sherlock’s prematurely disrupted plan held still in his mouth before he could ask John his motives. The doctor shook his head and looked sternly at the detective, “There’s no way you’re putting yourself on the line for this; absolutely not.”

Sherlock growled and prickled in John’s grip, “Then what do you suppose we do? Wait for the incompetent primates at the Yard to catch wind of him rising to power in London? You and I will be long gone along with Evelyn’s grandchildren before that ever happened!”

Captain Watson’s voice quietly sneaked into his speech as both hands found their ways to Sherlock’s upper arms and pinned him firmly in place, “Sherlock, I will not lose you to this world again. Do you understand me? We can investigate it, but I will _not_ stand for you going into this. If you want to go undercover, fine, but _I’ll_ be doing it if we do.”

He cocked an eyebrow in challenge at the tall detective in his grasp as his hands flexed. “Problem?”

For a moment, Sherlock’s stare bored holes into John before he yielded the defeat and shook John’s grip away, “Fine.”

His long legs set for the taxi again and within a few strides found their target. He slipped gracefully in and John followed suit, directing the cabbie for Baker Street before getting comfortable next to his husband in the cab. The tension was palpable in the confined space and both parties glared out of their respective windows until Sherlock’s large hand landed gingerly on John’s knee. The doctor looked over towards the detective, but the taller man made no effort to return the gesture.

Instead, he spoke softly into the window, almost as if whispering to himself, “They cried, by the way.”

John’s expression of shock at Sherlock’s unexpected honesty softened into compassion as he laid his hand down on his husband’s and squeezed gently before he turned his face back towards the window.

Without warning, Sherlock’s quiet rumble filled the cab again and the words set John’s teeth on edge, “They didn’t cry because they found out I was an addict, though. They cried because I died; at least legally.”

John tried his best to conceal his hatred for whatever chemical compound nearly took his husband’s life, but failed to conceal his sentiments in his grip on Sherlock’s hand. At the excess pressure, Sherlock squeezed back against John’s knee gently, yet his gaze was still focused on the ever-changing scenery that was passing London, “I overdosed and Mycroft found me on our drawing room floor. He had left something in there from his bag that he wanted to take back with him to Cambridge but instead found me.”

John’s brow furrowed as his did the math in his head. His head shot around and his voice cracked, “Cambridge? Wait. How old _were_ you?”

Sherlock shrugged and his breath fogged up against the cool window glass, “It was a rather odd ‘Sweet Sixteen’ party for my parents, I’d say.”

John’s heart sank into his gut as his thoughts jumped from imagining a sixteen-year-old Sherlock, all knees and elbows and curly hair, lying lifeless on the floor of a lonely drawing room, to imagining Evelyn’s seventeen-year-old body in the same predicament. A chill crept down his spine at the terrible thought as Sherlock squeezed his knee again.

“My sentiments exactly,” he said calmly as he turned and caught John’s hard-lined face. He squeezed out a small, sad smile and mumbled gently, “You needn’t worry, John. She’s wiser than I was at that age; and far more sound.”

John held his gaze for a moment before nodding and turning his face to the window again, his hand squeezing on Sherlock’s out of nerves.

“I know, Sherlock,” he sighed and tried to focus his racing thoughts on the ever-moving scenery.

“I know.”

 

***

 

“How do I look?”

Evelyn spun on the ball of her foot in Jeremy’s bedroom, exposing her outfit to Michael and Jeremy’s scrutiny. Her long golden hair was temporarily dyed dark brunette and the contrast against her skin made her seem even paler than usual. On her hips rode tight jeans with cuts ripped in horizontal lines all the way from hip to ankle, exposing the black lace tights she had on underneath. Her right shoulder was bare from her side-swept top and her midriff exposed milky skin to the elements. Her make-up cut lines into her high cheekbones and into her chin causing her to look far older than her years, and her fully busty body only helped ensure that image. Her eyes were outlined in thick black liner and rimmed with large hipster-esque frames and she smiled at who two friends, the burgundy lipstick thinning on her lips.

 _All in all,_ she decided, _it would be incredibly difficult for even the omniscient Sherlock Holmes to recognize me at this point._

Michael bit his first knuckle and cocked his head as he examined her. “Well, you definitely look… _different_ ,” he said plainly.

Jeremy laughed at the other boy’s lackluster examination and waved his hand towards her, “You look like you belong on a scene-kid magazine cover! Can you even _breathe_ in those jeans?”

Evelyn tossed a spare pillow at the tall, brunette boy and huffed indignantly, “ _Yes!_ I mean, barely but it’s for the sake of science and justice!”

Michael grumbled and crossed his arms over his chest, “No, it’s for the sake of your curiosity and ego. You’re gonna get yourself killed, Evelyn.”

She rolled her outlined eyes and sniffed at him, her hand on her hip, “Oh, stop being such a mother hen! I could die walking outside of my house and this is _important_. This guy’s drugs have found a way to infiltrate into our school and even if I don’t care for it that much, I don’t want any more kids getting hooked.” She waved her arm towards the far window to prove her point, “Haven’t you seen Benjamin Wallace lately? He can barely sit still in the classroom anymore and that’s _if_ he shows up! I just want to get some evidence so we can get Jarrod Ruiz in jail where he belongs.”

She paced over to where he sat on her bed and kissed his cheek lightly, leaving a faint shadow of burgundy on his pale skin, “Don’t worry. All I have to do is get a few minutes of footage and I’ll be out of there. I’ve been tracking his progress for weeks, and he’s started quite a bit of trouble for the city of London. I just want to get something concrete the Yard can work with. Anyways,” she nodded to Jeremy and smiled, “Jeremy will be monitoring the whole time, won’t you?”

Jeremy flicked open his laptop and typed in some code while smiling wryly, “You know, if I didn’t find blood and guts so alluring, I’d make a decent techno-geek.” He turned the screen and showed Michael and Evelyn the video feed that was being transmitted from Evelyn’s glasses. She plucked the faux _Ray Bands_ and rubbed a thumb over the small silver bit on the upper left-hand corner of the frames. The computer screen went black for a moment and then captured her face as she lifted her hand away from the miniscule camera.

She mumbled into it and her hushed voice echoed from the laptop speakers, “ _See, just a little bit of footage is all we need. You both will be able to watch and if you think something’s about to go down,”_ she pushed the glasses onto her nose and smiled, her voice echoing from the speakers as she spoke, “You’ll call my dads. They’re supposed to be out on a case tonight, but I think they’d answer the phone if it was about me.” She smirked and crinkled her nose playfully.

Michael stood to his full height and wrapped his arms around Evelyn’s lean, but full frame. His nose nestled in her dark hair and he spoke softly, the air from his lips making the hair dance before him, “I don’t like this, Evelyn. I _really_ don’t want you to go.”

Evelyn wrapped her arms around him and squeezed before pulling away and smiling, “Oh, Michael. If you haven’t noticed, I don’t take kindly to people telling me what to do. I’ll be fine. You will be monitoring me, so stop freaking out!”

She pulled away from him completely and jumped onto Jeremy’s bed next to the boy tapping away on his laptop keys. Black screens, blue screens, and a myriad of computer-code-filled screens popped up as he ticked away at the keys and he smiled up at her, “You have no idea what I’m doing, do you?”

She leaned her head up against his shoulder and smirked, “Not a damn clue.”

He pulled out a small piece of metal from a tiny cloth bag and his long fingers pulled at the key dangling from her neck. She lifted her chin, allowing him to have access to it while she frowned in confusion, “What are you-?”

“Shhh!” He commanded, gluing the piece of metal to the back of the key and placing it gently back against her skin. He leaned away from her and tapped on his laptop again until a map appeared; crosshairs focused in and expanded the map until she could see the street names and one in particular caught her eye: _Harley Street._

He smiled as she gasped and pat her knees gleefully, “It’s a tracker. I made it myself. We’ll be able to find you within a fifty-meter radius as long as it stays on you.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, “Do you think you can keep your clothes on that long?”

She smacked his arm good-humoredly and giggled, “Oh hush! See, Michael? Nothing to worry about; Jeremy is a saint!”

Michael’s shoulders relaxed a bit and he paced back towards the bed, “Fine. But I still don’t like this. What’s gonna happen if your parents find out? I can’t imagine that they’ll like their only daughter tracking down criminals by herself.”

She groaned and flopped back on the bed, spreading her arms away from her, “They’ll just have to get over it. Last time I went out on a case, I saved their lives so I don’t think they have any footing to tell me I’m not an asset to an investigation. Anyways, if we get the evidence we need and get this guy in jail, what would they have negative to say about it? Don’t worry about them, let’s just get this over with so I can go back to my ‘good girl’ persona and blow up my room with experiments of chemicals that I _haven’t_ tried yet.”

She groaned and pulled herself back up to a sitting position, “I’m _bored_! I need _something_ exciting before I drive myself insane in the confines of this flat!”

Michael smiled and ran his fingers through her falsely-brunette locks, “I get it, Ms. Genius. Let’s just get this over with so I can go to sleep tonight. I’ll be worried sick till you’re back in your room.”

She tilted her head and smiled affectionately at him, “I know. It’s astonishing that you’re not half gray already. You worry too much.”

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, “And _you_ don’t worry enough!”

Jeremy cleared his throat to re-assert his presence and pointed at the clock, “Are you two lovebirds gonna be at it all night or can we get this show on the road?”

The teenage girl smile and pressed her lips to Michael’s for a split second before she pulled away and fixed her glasses, “Into battle?”

Michael blew out a long sigh and crossed his arms over his chest as his eyebrows reached his hairline and he reluctantly agreed,

“Into battle.”

 

***

 

“Jesus! Do people actually do this crap for _fun_?!”

Evelyn coughed as she walked into the club. _Pulse_ was predominately one large room stuffy with fog and marijuana smoke, and every movement she made was pushed back against her by the pulsing sea of human beings that were capitulating to the oppressive beat of the deafening music.

The voice in her earpiece was barely audible over the bass that shook her to her core, “ _Oh, I don’t know. Looks like a good time to me!”_

She rolled her eyes and nearly yelled to be heard over the swarm of noise and bodies that surrounded her. “Shut up, Jeremy. Not helping! Do you see him anywhere?”

She narrowed her eyes as she tried to distinguish one sexually thrusting young adult from the other. As she stood on her boot-clad tip-toes, she felt a sweaty palm slide across the small of her back. She swiveled around to find a dark man with gold gleaming in his ear and nose looking down at her as he wrapped his hands around her hips; his pelvis pushing against her to the beat of the music.

“Hey babe, you here alone?” His breath reeked of alcohol and illicit drugs and his face was far too close to hers for comfort.

She wrapped her hands around his wrists and pulled them away from her hips, much to his chagrin, “No, I’m looking for my fiancé. Good day.”

His large hands gripped around her exposed waist again and his sweat-drenched face leaned in close to hers, his voice oozing out like sick smoke, “Oh come on, baby. Let Daddy show you a good time.”

She could hear Michael’s growl in her earpiece and she pinched the man’s pink in on itself pulling herself away from his grip firmly as he recoiled away from her with a deep gasp of pain, “I _said_ ‘good day’, now shoo!”

Before the warm hands could grip her again, she slithered in between a flock of people and into the mosh-pit of humans.

_Jesus, I definitely picked the wrong way to get through this stupid club. How do people find this entertaining? I’m gonna need hearing aids after this! Ugh! So. Many. Humans. This is disgusting!_

She practically swam through the sea of thrusting people until she found a wall at the far end of the club. She pressed herself against it and fixed her glasses on her nose with a quick press of her fingers, “I still don’t see him, do you guys?”

She heard the tapping of keys in her ears and a hum of discontentment, “ _Nope. Keep looking._ ”

She groaned and stepped away from the wall, brushing down the dust and cigarette ash from her clothes, “Yeah okay. Says the person who can hear his own thoughts!”

Her boots sloshed on spilled alcohol as she followed the perimeter of the club walls. She crinkled her nose as someone blew an entire mouthful of marijuana smoke in her face, and she had another incident with a far-too-friendly patron of the establishment.

She could feel her heart beat out of time with the beat of the bass and her entire frame vibrated with its terribly loud pulse.

“ _You alright in there, Eevee?_ ” she heard Jeremy’s voice mumble in her ear.

She nodded her head and scanned the floor again, “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m gonna try and get a better vantage point.”

She pushed herself through the crowd and found a stairway that lead to an exposed second story over the main gathering of people on the dance floor. She recoiled her hand from something wet and sticky from the handrails and wiped her palm down on her back jean pocket, grimacing and growling distastefully. She climbed the stairs with only a few moments of stalled progress as groups of people pushed past her down the steps.

She coughed again as she pushed through a cloud of dance room fog as she finally made it onto the platform floor. She scanned the area and found a balcony that allowed for a bird’s eye view of the dance floor and she made her way towards it, avoiding several “dancing” couples that rutted against each other like wild animals in heat.

_This is disgusting. I’m gonna have to bathe in hand sanitizer after this._

After thrusting herself between groups of pulsing young adults, she finally made her way to the balcony and she peered into the mosh pit of humans. She scanned the myriad of dancing bodies and found someone she recognized. She pulled the fake glasses closer to her face as if it would allow her to see more clearly and her eyes narrowed in order to scope them out.

“Hey, can you guys see what I see?”

A sarcastic groan emitted from her earpiece, “ _We see a lot, Eevee. You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”_

She rolled her eyes and pointed to her point of attention, “See that girl right there? All the way next to the edge of the bar and the bathroom? She’s kind of twitchy and she’s wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants even though it’s like a hundred degrees in here?”

Jeremy hummed as he tried to pin point her, “ _Uhhhhh, oh! Yeah, I see her! The one who just checked her phone?”_

Evelyn nodded and pulled her hand back to her side, “Yeah, that’s it. That’s Ester Olenheimer. She’s in our year but she hasn’t shown up to school in a week. I thought something might be wrong with her, but she hadn’t been around for me to find out for sure.” She leaned farther over the banister as she watched the girl pick at her phone nervously. “I wonder if she’s getting her stash from our friend at school.”

Michael’s deeper voice filled her ear as she leaned back over the guardrail, “ _Be careful, Evelyn. We can watch her from up here until we spot him. Otherwise you’re gonna give yourself away.”_

Anticipation burned in Evelyn’s chest and she pivoted on her heel towards the stairway, “No, we’ve got to find out if she’s getting her supply from Jarrod or from a different source. She went off the map right as the problem was starting so she may have a connection to the leader instead of one of the lower dealers.”

Michael’s voice cut in again with a little static, “ _Can’t we just get footage of her buying it and leave you out of it? Wouldn’t that serve just as much of a purpose?”_

Evelyn rolled her eyes as she bounded down the steps, thankful for the lack of traffic between the songs, “I’m not sure if that would count. They’re not mic’d up so we would have no idea what’s going down. Unless we get closer, we won’t have any substantial proof that anything wrong is going on.”

Her boots clicked against the concrete floor as she followed the perimeter of the club until she found herself nearing the bar. The girl hadn’t moved much besides her legs bouncing as she flitted about, twitchy.

“She’s in it bad. Look, she’s just about vibrating,” she murmured into the air as she watched the young woman.

The sickly thin girl scratched unconsciously at the crooks of her elbows and continually ran her fingers through her straw-like hair. Her hazy blue eyes darted around as if her paranoia was beginning to get the better of her and her chapped lips were being sucked on by a dry tongue as she stood near the bar.

From behind the bar, a young man appeared and walked casually towards the twitchy girl and gently placed his palm on her elbow. She jumped and when she looked at his face, her expression was one of frightful relief. The young man smiled and pulled something from his pocket, testing its weight in his palm before rubbing it into her shaky one. A wad of bills were passed from the girl to the boy and she flitted off back into the crowd before the man pulled the bills apart, counting them for the total.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes and smiled sinisterly, “Gotcha, Jarrod.”

She stood from around the bar and paced over towards him, the distance between them lessening as Jeremy’s voice echoed in her ears, “ _Alright, little birdie. Go in there and snatch a bit of footage and get the hell out of there. I do NOT want to have to call your parents tonight, okay?”_

She smiled and hummed in agreement, “Alright, Mom. I’ll make it short and sweet.”

She sauntered up to the young man and bat her eyelashes beneath her frames as he looked at her, “Hey there, love. You busy?”

The dark-skinned young man smiled predatorily as he ran a finger down her cheek towards her chin, the scent of his strong cologne thick on his wrist, “ _Olá, linda_.”

Evelyn giggled at the compliment and noted the Portuguese language. She pinched her cheeks against her eyes to produce a flush and she purred back one of the only Portuguese phrases she could think of, “ _Olá, bonitão_.”

His dark brows raised and he smiled honestly, and his Brazilian accent was woven into his English, “Ah, intelligent and beautiful; what a rare combination.” He raised her left hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles and she flushed again.

“You are too kind, love. A man as handsome as you, though, should be able to find excitement in a more acceptable place than this, don’t you think? What’re you in for?”

He narrowed his eyes as he smiled at her, “I have business here. And friends.”

She raised her eyes in mock interest and twirled her brunette lock in her fingertips, “Any kind of business that a lady would find _intriguing_?”

He dug his hand in his pocket and placed his fingertips on something that wrinkled in the cloth, before he spoke again, having to speak louder over the now booming music and the appreciative screams of the masses inside the confined space, “Depends.”

Jeremy’s voice rang in her ear, barely audible over the music, “ _Evelyn, I’m getting a bad vibe from this guy. I think you might want to call it off. We can come back.”_

 _Of course you’re getting a bad vibe from him. He’s a drug dealer, you idiot._ She shook her head minutely as she tilted towards the young man before her, “On?”

Suddenly her heart rate spike as she felt a warm hand clamp around her hip and he drew her close, purring in her ear as he nuzzled his face against her curls, “ _Priorities._ ”

She curled around his body so that her glasses could see his entire face. “Priorities?” she asked. “What kind of ‘priorities’?”

His hungry dark eyes darted down to her lips and then back to hers, gleaming white teeth sparkling as he smiled.

“ _Segue-me_ ,” he whispered, only audible because of the proximity of their faces and he pulled at her hand urging her to follow him towards the back door.

Her stomach dropped as another man stepped forward and shoved his hand in between them.

“Oi, you starting trouble in here?”

Her entire body stilled as the familiar voice boomed between them.

“ _Oh, shit!”_ Jeremy called into her ear, his surprise and Michael’s gasp obvious in the small noises in her earpiece.

John Watson stood tall, clad in a leather jacket, t-shirt and jeans, and seemed like he had been emulating a bouncer with the way his jaw was set and the scowl that seemed pressed into his expression. His face however, was clean and bright and Evelyn would have sworn it were another man twenty years her father’s junior, if it weren’t for John’s blazing dark blue eyes and his familiar commanding voice.

Evelyn did her best to conceal her surprise and took on the façade of offence at the interruption, morphing her voice into as thick a Cockney accent as she could muster to try and hide her identity, “What you fink you’re doin’ old man?”

John seemed startled at her brashness, but didn’t seem to recognize his own eyes looking back at him. He waved nonchalantly at the dark boy, keeping his gaze on her, “This boy isn’t anything but trouble, young lady. I suggest you get home before you get in over your head.”

She felt the grip on her wrist grow tighter as the Brazilian heated.

 _Jesus, Daddy! Stop it! You’re gonna get us both killed!_ Her thoughts ran through her mind at the speed of light as she tried to decide how best to get everyone out of the situation safe. _Get Daddy away,_ was the best she could come up with.

She huffed indignantly at the disguised doctor and waved her hand up flippantly trying to get him to back off, “Bugger off!” She grabbed the young man’s arm and pulled him away from John’s glare, “Come on; let’s get outta here.”

Suddenly the dark boy ripped out of her grip and challenged John’s stature, his Portuguese language pouring from his lips like venom, _“Preste atenção a sua volta, meu velho. Você já não estão muito longe do túmulo.”_

 _Do túmulo,_ Evelyn ran through her mind until she found the familiar term: _“grave”_.

_Shit! Nope! Nopenopenopenope._

John stood unwavering before the young man who seemed to tower over him very similarly to how she had seen him stand against her Dad when arguments rang out throughout the flat. He opened his mouth to speak, but she thrust a hand against his chest causing him to stagger where he stood.

At that point she decided that the potentiality of blowing her cover to him was less important than getting him away from the prickling drug dealer he was arguing with. The deep blue eyes of her father narrowed in challenge at her until she spoke. She dropped her voice down low and dropped the accent as she narrowed her outlined eyes at him forebodingly, “I said _leave_ , doctor.”

He seemed to stop all motion at her words and his expression of extreme disbelief nearly broke her heart as she dragged at the dark skinned boy until he relented and the two left the dumbfounded doctor standing in the club as they escaped into the alleyway behind the facility.

The outside air washed over them like a cool wave of comfort from the heat and sweat of the club.

 _“Evelyn, you need to get out of there. Get out of there NOW,”_ Jeremy’s voice was loud in her ear as panic welled in her chest. _I am in way over my head,_ she thought to herself. _Oh God, what am I gonna do? How am I gonna get out of this now?_

The Brazilian man dusted off his jacket and stood away from her in the alley, humming Latin music to himself.

Evelyn gave herself a mental shake and inhaled deeply, forcing herself to think straight. She rubbed her arms from the cool night wind and huffed a short humorless laugh. “Well that was little intense, huh?”

The dark eyes pinned her to the spot as he grinned sinisterly, “Quite.” He placed his hand in his pocket and pulled a packet of black powder confined in a thin plastic bag, “Were you still interested in the experience?”

_If I say no, then he’ll suspect foul play on my part. Shit, guess I’m past the point of no return._

She smiled and brushed the hair from her face as she stepped towards him, “What’s the price of your… _experience_?”

 _“Evelyn…”_ Jeremy’s voice warned in her ear, but she decided she had come too far to turn back now without a good cause. Her father was out of the way and safe in the club and in a moment she would have her evidence. Then she would head back for Baker Street, take the longest shower she had ever had the pleasure of partaking in, and she would forget all about it until morning.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Jarrod Ruiz had a different idea. He took her hand and rubbed the small packet into her palm and eyed her like a feral beast on meat. She felt a chill go down her spine as he smiled and closed his fingers back on his palm in the air before his shark-toothed mouth spilled two words: “ _Sua vida_.”

The young man whistled lightly and a shadow crept from the depth of the alleyway, and Evelyn’s fight or flight reflexes kicked in, her legs aching to run, and her heart pounding in fear. Her boots flew down the alleyway and she cringed at the sound of unhurried footsteps behind her, as if they knew she had no place to run.

 _“Eevee, turn left at the end of the alley! There’s a main road you can lose them on! Hurry! I’ll try and send you away from them okay? Jesus Christ, I’m gonna kill you!”_ Jeremy hollered into her ear piece.

She rolled her eyes as her feet pounded against the asphalt, “That’s only if I don’t get myself killed first!” She rounded the left and found herself on a large road full of traffic. “Where are you taking me?”

She heard the pit-pat of keys clicking as Jeremy spoke nervously, _“I’m getting you as far away from that creep as possible, but not anywhere near Baker Street just in case. Do you want me to call your Dad?”_

She panted as she continued to run even through the large crowds of late-night London traffic, “No! I’ll… I’ll figure it out!”

Jeremy’s worried voice broke over the ear piece, _“Evelyn, if I can’t get you away quick enough, I’ll call them regardless. Turn right down that one-way street. There’s a store you can run in until you can lose your tail.”_

Her heavy feet obliged and she rounded the corner, turning slightly around to determine the proximity to her hunters, “Is it even gonna be open? It’s the middle of the night!”

 _“Evelyn!”_ Michael’s voice boomed over the speaker in her ear and she winced at the volume. _“Stop questioning us! Would you just GO?”_

On the pivot of her heel she turned the last corner and her chest burned as she saw the blinking “OPEN” sign that lit up the doorway into the establishment. She yanked the door open and bounded into the store. Out of breath, she leaned forward, hands on her knees, and she panted into her mic, “Okay, I don’t think… I will _ever_ … be bored enough to… do that again!”

Jeremy laughed humorlessly in her ear as he tapped away on his computer, _“Don’t laugh yet, Evelyn. You’re still a long way from being safe. Go hide somewhere and keep your eyes peeled for anything that doesn’t feel right.”_

She straightened herself and placed her hand against her thrumming heart; her calves trembling with the exertion of the frantic run, “Yeah, okay. Is there any way you could hack into the CCTV footage?”

Jeremy growled through the earpiece and began to type furiously into the laptop, _“I mean, I think I can, but it’s gonna take time, and we don’t have that. I’ll try, but right now I can only see what you see. Please, don’t get killed Evelyn. My poor little heart wouldn’t handle it.”_

She huffed a slight smile, “Stop being so melodramatic. Just pretend you’re watching a suspense movie and I’m the main character.”

She heard Jeremy’s hearty laughter that was punctuated with typing keys, _“You mean I get to punch Michael here in the face whenever something jumps from the shadows? I guess I’ll be okay with that.”_

She smirked and sauntered through the store until she found the back. She tossed glances both ways before she retreated into the colder storage area and found herself surrounded by boxes.

She padded down the aisle and crept around the mountains of boxes checking her surroundings for intruders besides herself, “How long am I gonna have to hang out here?”

She heard Jeremy hum as he thought, “ _Well I’m having trouble cracking the lock on the database, so a little while longer if you want me to be able to see the entire outside of the store.”_

She laughed to herself and smiled, “Imagine Uncle Mycroft’s face when he finds out a seventeen year old boy hacked into his camera coverage.”

She heard the smirk in Jeremy’s voice as he tapped the keys, _“Imagine Mr. Holmes’ and Mr. Watson’s faces when they find out their seventeen year old daughter pretended to buy drugs for the sake her own curiosity.”_

She mocked offense, “Ugh! So rude! This is not just _curiosity_. _And_ I did more than just ‘pretend’.”

She opened her clamped hand and held up the small bag filled with black powder up for the glasses to see.

“ _Jesus, Evelyn. Are you serious?”_ Jeremy’s astonished squeal hurt her ears and she recoiled from it against the cold ground. She shoved the bag back into her pocket and smiled.

"As a heart attack. We have proof now. Video footage of him possessing _and_ distributing. Besides, we probably stopped some other poor soul from trying to buy drugs from him tonight.”

Michael huffed over the ear piece, “ _Yeah and now we’re watching helplessly as you run away for your life. That sounds like an absolutely normal Saturday night to me!”_

She clicked her tongue and grinned, “So touchy.”

She dropped into a crouch as she heard a noise from the front part of the storage area, and she whispered into her mic, “Shit! Someone followed me! How do I get out?”

Jeremy’s nerves echoed in his voice, “ _I don’t know, Evelyn! I told you, I can only see what you see! Look, I’ll work on it. Just don’t get caught!”_

She groaned soundlessly and crouched behind some boxes as she heard the quick footsteps breach the distance between her and them.

“Jesus, Sherlock! I am far too old for all of this shit!” John’s voice boomed in the empty storage room and his pants echoed on the walls.

Sherlock’s wheezes started to simmer down as he spoke, “It was _your_ idea to follow her, John! Or don’t you remember?”

Evelyn shrunk farther against the set of boxes as she recognized the voices of her fathers.

John groaned and Evelyn thought it sounded like he was stretching, “Shut up.”

Evelyn shifted on her knees to make herself more comfortable and the shift caused a small squeak against the linoleum floor. She stilled and her heart stopped at the sound and the shifting of her father’s shoes stopped in their tracks. Much to her excitement, the footsteps seemed to retreat away from her and she let out the pressure in her chest in a silent sigh.

Suddenly, her mouth was covered by a large hand and fingers clamped her nose shut, cutting off all oxygen.

A deep voice growled in her ear, “Don’t scream.”


	18. Faith, Trust, and Drug Busts

“Sherlock, I look ridiculous.”

John pulled the rugged leather coat around him and pulled the collar up, before straightening it down smoothly.

Sherlock looked up from his computer and smiled, “You look fine, love.” He sniffed and creased his eyes, “I never took you as one for vanity.”

John did a little wiggle to pull his tight jeans on and scowled, “How do you expect me to run in these? I can barely _walk_.” He grimaced and gestured to his attire, “Don’t you think it’s going to look a _little_ suspicious to have a fifty-six year old man dressed like a teenager? I don’t exactly look like I fit in.”

Sherlock groaned and slid the laptop off of his lap and padded into the near bathroom.

John cocked his head as he heard his husband shuffling around in the toiletries and when the detective returned, his stomach dropped into his feet.

“No, Sherlock,” he said sternly, wagging a finger at the tall man. “Absolutely not.”

The detective grinned impishly as he splayed the makeup and hair products on the bed, “Well, John. If you’re going to compromise this investigation with your reluctance to play the part, then I will be forced to pick up your slack.” He lowered his face and glanced at John through his long, dark lashes. “ _I_ still fit in my club attire.”

John flushed and he could feel his hands curl into fists as he ran through the options in his mind. _Option one: Sherlock goes undercover in a drug ring. Nope. Option Two: You wear makeup… There are worse things, I suppose._

He unclenched his fists and let out a long sigh, glaring at Sherlock through his brows, “Fine. But don’t make me any more ridiculous-looking than I already do, okay?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a wry smile as he picked up the container of hair-gel, “I wouldn’t dream of it, John.”

John rolled his eyes and pulled the chair from the desk and sat down grudgingly. Sherlock turned the lid of the container and dipped his fingers into the product, pulling a clump out onto his hands and rubbing it between his long fingers.

The detective stepped in front of John’s sitting form and smiled as he ran his musician’s hands through the short sandy-gray hair; fluffing and tugging at it gently as he hummed.

John growled and grabbed his husband’s hips in front of him and rubbed the protruding hip bones, “You’re having far too much fun with this, you know.”

Sherlock blew a fuzzy away from John’s treated hair and smiled, “There’s no such thing as ‘too much fun’, John.”

The doctor rolled his eyes as Sherlock pulled away from his grip and picked up a tan powder and a fluffed brush. His eyes went big as he recognized the brand, “You are _not_ about to put Evelyn’s makeup on me.” He pouted and crossed his arms, “There has to be _something else_ you could use.”

Sherlock hummed as he tapped the brush on the side of the container and brushed it against John’s weathered skin, “Stop being so ornery, John. You’ll look fine. Just shut up and let me work, would you?”

John scowled and his navy eyes watched the man before him. Sherlock’s blazing silver-green eyes darted around his face and creased in an honest smile as they met John’s. The doctor flushed and broke the gaze, as Sherlock tapped another brush on a container of makeup.

His deep growl reverberated through the room as he spoke, “Being bashful, _Captain Watson_?”

John’s cheeks heated and he glowered at Sherlock as warmth bubbled in the bottom of his gut, “Stop that.”

Sherlock hummed as he leaned down to brush some color onto John’s already pink face.

 _“_ _Prima donna, enchant us once again. Think of your muse, and of the queues ‘round the theatre!”_

John pulled back and earnestly glared at the teasing detective, “Oh my God, would you _stop_?”

Sherlock sniggered and fluffed John’s leather jacket and shirt underneath, “Fine. Stand up and let’s take a look.” He held his hand out to John and the doctor took it reluctantly, pulling himself up and following him into the bathroom.

He reluctantly looked in the reflective glass and his breath caught in his throat. His hands jumped to his face and touched through his hair.

His age-weathered face was even-toned and supple, the scars of age eradicated from his skin. The gray that normally spattered around his stubble and short hair was covered and he could barely believe the sight in front of him. The short hair was fluffed and shaped in a way that exuded youth and playfulness and he assumed he looked about as young as he was when he met Sherlock, over two decades prior.

Sherlock hooked his hip against the door frame of the bathroom and smirked, his arms crossed over his chest, “I suppose that will have to do for tonight.”

John swiveled on his heel and glared at him incredulously, “How- how did you do that?!”

Sherlock frowned and waved a hand flippantly, “Just a magic trick, John. You look the part now, can we _go_?”

John glanced back in the mirror and smiled at the sight. His face lolled back and forth as he examined himself and then he nodded curtly, “Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”

 

***

 

“Don’t you think it’s just a bit disturbing that we’re tailing a seventeen year old girl?”

John pulled Sherlock’s shoulder down so that he could holler in is ear over the thrumming beat of the music that filled the club.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged, “No more disturbing than anything else we’ve done.”

His green-blue eyes scanned the crowd and landed on the young woman they had been following who had positioned herself near the bar. Although it was sweltering in the dank club, she was covered in a black hoodie and sweatpants combination and even Sherlock who was wearing his suit was surprised she hadn’t collapsed from heat stroke.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he studied her movements. ( _Scratching at arms, jumpy, sweating- but not doing anything about it, fumbling with something in hoodie pocket-money?, crashing from the high.)_

A young man crept from behind the bar and Sherlock’s ever vigilant eyes caught his shady movements. He nudged John’s shoulder and pointed towards the dark-skinned man as he leaned down to mumble into his partner’s ear, “That’s the new dealer, Jarrod Ruiz. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Alexandre’s son to whom he passed down the business when it expanded past his own personal capabilities.”

John nodded and leaned up to respond, “So what’s the plan then?”

Sherlock looked down at him warily then brushed the hair sticking to his damp skin away with a long finger as he nodded towards the two young people making an illicit transaction, “Get information.”

John huffed at the taller man and nodded to himself before setting off. A large hand grabbed his upper arm and he turned abruptly to find dark curls and piercing eyes peering at him. Cupid bow lips brushed against his cheek on their way to his ear.

“Be careful, John.”

The doctor caught his eyes for a moment and forced a small smile before he tore away from the grip on his leather jacket.

He pushed through the masses of young people that thrust and danced with the pulse of the terribly loud music until he found himself within earshot of the conversation between the young man and lady.

He leaned back against a wall to watch the transaction and his eyes followed her as she flitted away back through the crowd. He sighed as he unwrapped his arms from around his torso. _Let’s get this over with then._

He used the back of his heel to push himself off the wall and began to walk forward until another young woman took the man’s attention. In order to conceal is failed effort, he leaned against a table about a meter and a half away with a rather inebriated group of people to keep him company.

John’s eyes fell upon the girl and a strange mix of confusion and anticipation settled in his gut. _That girl can be any older than Evelyn. Jesus, what makes these poor kids think drugs is gonna help ANYTHING?_ He chewed on his lip and watched the two speak, catching a few words in the shorter distance.

The young brunette bobbed her head to the side as she bat her eyelashes at the dark-skinned man, “Any kind of business that a lady would find _intriguing_?”

John crinkled his nose and shook his head. _Evelyn is at home, stop it. Every teenager sounds the same._

The man named Jarrod leaned forward and whispered something to her, his hand gripping on her waist in a way that made John’s stomach turn, and curled around her body, pressing against her in a way that obviously made her uncomfortable.

She pressed on her glasses and responded quietly before he grabbed her wrist and began to pull her towards the alley exit. John’s chest burned as his moral compass went haywire and he thrust a hand between them, pausing their movement for a moment.

“Oi, you starting trouble in here?” He spat, hoping his sincere scowl and commanding Captain Watson voice would intimidate the two into moving away from each other.

The girl startled and her blue eyes widened in shock at him. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights for a moment before a mask of calm collection fell over her face again. Her dark painted lips opened and a thick accent poured out, “What you fink you’re doin’ old man?”

John’s expression showed his surprise at her attitude, but he didn’t make a scene. Instead he focused on the outlined navy eyes that glared at him. He felt a chill go through his spine before he gave himself a mental shake. _You feel guilty for leaving her home alone and you’re nervous about what Sherlock said. Those eyes aren’t yours, so keep your head on straight._

He straightened himself and gestured to the man on her arm, “This boy isn’t anything but trouble, young lady. I suggest you get home before you get in over your head.”

The girl prickled at his demand and waved him off. “Bugger off!” She grabbed the young man’s arm and attempted to pull him away from John’s glare, “Come on; let’s get outta here.”

He saw the grip on her wrist tighten and his fist tightened in response. John raised his hand, but before he could say anything, the young man’s face merely an inch from his; a thick Portuguese sentence was breathed into his face with the strong scent of alcohol dripping on the words, _“Preste atenção a sua volta, meu velho. Você já não estão muito longe do túmulo.”_

John nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation. _Things like this would be SO much easier if I had any idea what these people were saying to me!_

The young girl’s eyes bounced from side to side as if she were reading a book until she jerked up and stared at John with terrified eyes. It took him a moment to realize that the fear was not directed _at_ him, but rather _for_ him and it unsettled his stomach.

He opened his mouth to speak in her defense, but the words were knocked from his throat as he felt two small hands thrust against his chest, sending him backwards and costing him his balance. He shot her a glare as he caught himself a step away and rest a hand where her palms had hit him.

The young woman dropped her head hostilely and her accent receded as she hissed at him; the dark blue of her eyes pinning him in place as her voice chilled him, “I said _leave_ , doctor.”

He felt the wind knocked out of him at her words and he just stared at her in disbelief as he watched her drag the young man away and out towards the back of the alley. He stood blinking the confusion away until a warm hand gripped his shoulder and dark curls bounced to his side.

“What did you find out?”

John shook his head slowly as he watched the alley exit door shut, “Nothing.”

Sherlock seemed shocked and his eyebrows rose to his hairline, “What do you mean?”

John’s head continued to shake as he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and began to pull him towards the main exit of the club. Sherlock followed him without question but leaned forward and his concerned voice mumbled in his ear, “John, are you all right?”

John refused to look at him and just nodded curtly while he continued to push through the crowds around the walls of the room, “Let’s just get home, okay?”

As they finally crossed the threshold into the street, the cool night air seemed to blow all of the heat from the club away from their bodies. John sucked in a large breath and began to walk towards Baker Street before Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and turned his shorted body towards him.

The dark brows parenthesized his soft green eyes as he searched John for any wounds or ailments. His thin wrist rested against John’s neck and the doctor looked away from him as he continued through his ministrations.

“John, what’s wrong? You’ve no fever, but even under the makeup, you’re nearly white.” A large hand cupped John’s cheek, “What did he say to you?”

John narrowed his eyes at the ground before he looked back at him and he shrugged, “It wasn’t him. He didn’t even speak to me in anything but Portuguese, so I’ve no idea what he said.” He chewed on his cheek as he lowered his gaze again. “It was the girl. She looked so much like Evelyn, it was just… unnerving.”

Sherlock frowned and rubbed John’s cheekbone with his thumb, “Let’s get home then. I’m sure you’ll feel better if you see her.”

John shook his head, his gaze leveled at the ground, “She knew I was a doctor. The bloke threatened me, I guess, and she pushed me away. It was almost as if she was afraid I was going to get hurt, and she pulled him away to take the heat herself. I just…” He sighed as he searched for the words, “I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Sherlock rubbed on his shoulder and opened his mouth to speak as a blur of brown hair and dark clothes shot past them and he turned on his heel to catch a glimpse.

The brunette curls bounced in the wind as her heavy looking boots pounded the concrete. He turned to comment on it, but before he could, John shot past him on the heels of the girl.

Sherlock’s astonished face was brilliant for a moment before he took off running as well, catching up to John in a few strides of his long legs.

“What are you doing, John?” His deep voice bellowed as he pulled next to John.

The doctor rounded a corner and answered him without looking towards him, “That was the girl! I need to know how she knows me!”

Sherlock scoffed and waved his hand as he rounded the corner as well, “You’re Doctor Watson! Besides that, you’re my blogger. _Everyone_ knows you!”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s flippancy as they rounded another corner onto a one-way street. The girl stopped abruptly and jerked herself into a still open store and John paused right outside of the door and watched as she went to the back.

He tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve and pulled the door open, “Come on!”

The door clinked as they stepped in and John dragged the still panting Sherlock behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the back door to the storage area slide shut and he ran along the wall of the store till he caught it pulling him inside.

The two men ran down the aisle of boxes until they found the other wall of storage area and John leaned forward on his knees.

“Jesus, Sherlock! I am far too old for all of this shit!” John didn’t try to yell, but his voice boomed in the empty storage room.

Sherlock’s wheezes turned his face bright pink as he retorted John, “It was _your_ idea… to follow her, John! Or… don’t you remember?”

John’s expression went from irritation to alarm as he heard the rattling in Sherlock’s breathing and he wrapped his arms around his husband and pulled him straight up, pulling his arms above his head as Sherlock forced himself to wheeze through his nose and out of his mouth.

Sherlock’s stunted words barely made noise past his lips, “Inconvenient… Transport…”

John smirked and grunted slightly as he supported Sherlock’s weight on his side as his panting began to simmer, “Shut up.”

They stood for a moment longer until lowered his arms and straightened his jacket, returning to the posh, polished detective in a few graceful movements.

John opened his mouth to speak before they heard the scuff of boots against the linoleum ground. Sherlock straightened up and nodded towards John then towards the sound.

John went towards the far side of the wall and Sherlock rounded a tall mountain of boxes until his silent steps found him at the back of the young girl. He heard John’s footsteps travel farther away from them and he watched as the girl relaxed and sighed, putting herself in a more vulnerable state.

He silently padded forward, kneelt down and wrapped a hand around her face, fingers pinching her nostrils together and her body went rigid.

He pressed his cheek against her brunette locks and growled in her ear menacingly, “Don’t scream.”

AS if to spite him, he immediately began to struggle and teeth clamped down on his palm. A deep, throaty yelp escaped his lips and he heard John’s footsteps sprint towards them.

“Stop… struggling!” he commanded as wrapped his arms tighter around the young girl writhed and wriggled underneath him.

In her efforts to get away, her glasses slung off her head and skittered against the ground, the lenses facing away from them and into the empty storage room. She thrust an elbow back against his ribs and he released her with a gasp, clutching at himself with his free hands. She leapt up, a small piece of metal dropping from her body and started to bound off in reverse until she backed into John’s chest and he gripped her in a head lock; arms linked above her head and head cocked to the side.

John growled into her ear, “You’re gonna relax, okay? I’d really rather not hurt you, but we have questions.”

“No!” She hollered as she struggled against him, her hair covering her face until Sherlock held himself from the ground with one arm and wrapped the other around his chest. His squinted and tilted his head as he recognized the voice and his eyes settled on the key around her neck.

“ _Evelyn_?”

The girl stopped struggling and removed the hair from her face with a quick nod of her head, “ _Dad_?”

John stilled and released her from his grip, the effort nearly throwing her to the floor away from him. He flushed with anger and stepped towards her, “ _Evelyn Mary Watson_ , what the _hell_ are you doing here?!”

She ran her fingers through her hair and bounced on her knees as her arms waved dramatically towards the doors, “Why the _hell_ were you chasing me?!”

John flipped a hand through her hair then gestured to her attire, “What are _you_ doing? What have you done to your _hair_? When did you start to _dress_ like that?”

She pulled her hair back over one shoulder and held her other hand up in surrender as she backed away from the two men, “Please Daddy, let me explain!”

Sherlock stood shakily and padded over to her, thrust his hand in her pocket and pulled out the packet of black powder, exposing it to John in his palm. He thrust it back towards her hollered as he scowled, “Explain _this,_ Evelyn! What is this? Never mind, I know _exactly_ what this is. I don’t- I can’t even begin to fathom- ugh!”

He ripped a hand through his hand and glared at her as he paced around the floor. John’s breath was knocked out of him by the black powder and he gripped on Evelyn’s shoulder, jerking her around to see him, “Evelyn! What’s going on? Tell me this is _not_ what it looks like.”

She shook her head vigorously and waved towards Sherlock, “No! I swear it’s not! Please, Dad! Let me explain. You’re jumping to conclusions!”

His heart sank and his bottom lip quivered with pain as he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow at her, “Evelyn, you know very well know that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

He gestured to her and his voice raised to a terrifying boom, “I see my daughter slinking around in a club, dressed like a street-walker and find a packet of ‘ _Rosa Negra’_ in her pocket. _Please_ enlighten me as to how this is not what it seems!”

John held out an arm towards Sherlock and held him back as his temper flared, “Sherlock, calm down. Let her expl-”

Sherlock snarled at John, his feral green eyes ablaze with fury. He waved the doctor’s hand away as he yelled, “No, John!” He turned his attentions back to the young girl beginning to cower at her father’s anger. He could feel the burn of frustrated tears prickle in his eyes and he waved dramatically towards her; his glare pinning her to the spot, “Why, Evelyn? Give me one _damn_ good reason that you would throw your life away! How _dare_ you throw away your gifts?”

Evelyn raised her hands as a tear began to streak her cheek, pulling the eyeliner along with it, “Dad, please! I’m not doing anything _wrong_!”

He scoffed as he thrust the black packet at her, “Nothing ‘ _wrong’_? Evelyn, is your mind _really_ as feeble as it seems that you don’t recall the promise you made seven-hundred-and-sixty-two days ago?” He tossed the packet down at her feet and scowled, “I thought you were smarter than that.”

The words cut her deep and she felt her heart sink into a block of ice in her chest. She began to feel her lips tremble and she pleaded again, “Dad, I’m trying to help people! Would you just lis-?”

He thrust his hands towards the ground and glared at her, “No! Evelyn, you won’t make any argument that _I_ haven’t made before!” His hands gripped painfully at his dark curls before rubbing the heel of his hand over his leaking eyes, “They _don’t_ make you think any clearer. They _don’t_ help you help people. Nothing you’re going to say is _true_! I thought you _knew_ better than-!”

“LISTEN to me, dammit!” She screamed, interrupting his emotional rant. She picked up the packet from the floor, paced towards him and thrust it at Sherlock. “Dad, I need you to _trust_ me!”

He gripped the black powder in his hand as gestured towards her, “ _Trust_ you? You want me to trust you with drugs? You’re not as clever as you think you are if you think you can avoid the add-!”

“No!” She cried, her hands balling into fists at her side. “Stop yelling at me for two _damn_ seconds and I’ll explain! I just need you to _trust_ me!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort before his phone began to ring in his pocket. He stared quizzically at his pocket and then to John whose ringtone filled the room at the same obnoxious volume. Sherlock slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the thin technology, an unfamiliar number blinking on the screen.

Evelyn gasped and ran towards her glasses, “Shit!” She picked the piece of metal that was slung from her and wiped it off before placing it back in her ear and mumbling to herself. She bent down to pick the glasses from the ground and placed them, broken lenses and all, on the top of her head, holding her hair out of her face.

Sherlock ignored the call as did John, and their phones continued to ring after the callers left voicemails.

She padded back towards the two men and pulled the glasses from her head allowing her parents to examine them. She quirked her brow as she tried to explain, “Do you know what these are? You know I can see without glasses, so deduce their purpose, Dad.”

He huffed and waved a hand dismissively at her, “A lackluster disguise, evidently.”

She groaned and thrust the glasses at him, “No, Dad! _Look_! Pay attention or those phones are just going to keep ringing!”

Sherlock turned away from her, but John stepped forward, lifting the glasses from her hand and examining them and turning them over in his hands.

He frowned as he looked at her, “I’m sorry, Evelyn, but you’re not making your point very clear.”

Sherlock gripped the ringing phone in his hand and slid it off angrily, “Who the _hell is this_?”

Evelyn paced over to him and pulled the earpiece from her ear, wiping it off before placing it in his.

She spoke as if she were speaking to someone in the room besides the three of them, “I’m fine guys, really. You can stop calling them now.”

Sherlock glared at her until he startled at the sound of Jeremy’s voice in his ear, “ _Jesus Christ, Evelyn! Are you okay? Warn us next time would you? The glasses keep moving. Are those your parents? All we heard was a bunch of yelling and- oh my God I think I’m gonna piss my pants!”_

Sherlock crinkled his nose and plucked the glasses from John’s hands, turning them over in his own large palms. “The glasses? I don’t understand.” He narrowed his eyes as he finally spotted the incorrect coloring on the rim of the faux _Ray Bands_. “Oh, I see.”

He aimed the glasses at his face and quirked an irritated brow at it, “Hello, Jeremy. Would you like to explain what’s going on?”

He heard Michael’s deep voice curse before Jeremy coughed nervously, _“Erm, hi there Mr. Holmes. I… Um, well you see…”_

Evelyn pulled the glasses away from Sherlock and looked at him sternly, “Don’t be angry with them. This was my idea.”

To her surprise, John’s heavy hand clouted the backside of her ear as he closed the distance, “What the hell were you thinking, Evelyn?”

She rubbed at her smarting head and waved the glasses at the two men before her, “This is a recording device. Well, it’s really more of a camera and Jeremy’s computer is doing all the recording.” She looked at Sherlock with pleading eyes as she explained, “A bunch of the kids at school have been getting hooked on something really bad and I wanted to get it out of the school. I’ve been watching this guy named Jarrod Ruiz for _weeks_ and when you told me you were out on a case, I decided to go on my own.”

She exchanged her glance to John who stood in a military parade position, arms wrapped around his chest. “I temporarily dyed my hair and got into this ridiculous get-up and decided to get the evidence I need to put this guy away. The Yard can’t ever pin him with anything substantial, and I knew I could if I got close enough. I went down there today to get my proof and I was doing _fine_ until _you_ showed up and pissed him off!” She finished gesturing at John angrily. “What the hell were you two doing in a club _anyways_? And why does your face look like that?”

John huffed incredulously as he waved a hand back at her ignoring her second question, “Don’t you realize who that man _is_?”

Sherlock groaned and waved flippantly at them both, “Of course she doesn’t, John! If she did, she wouldn’t have been stupid enough to go on this little misadventure.”

Evelyn prickled at his words and turned abruptly on her heel at him in challenge, “ _Stupid_? You think I’ve been _stupid_ about all this?” She flipped up fingers for each heated point she made. “You think it was _stupid_ of me to collect evidence on a man that the Yard can’t get their hands on and possibly allow them to find out about the bigger drug ring they’re a part of? You think it was _stupid_ of me to have an entire recording system to document everything I said, did, and was done to me? You think it was _stupid_ to have a team behind me that called you the second they thought something was amiss to alert you to come save me? Hell, if they did what I told them to, Uncle Greg should already be on his way down here!”

She bumped the heel of her hand against her forehead, “Oh right, I forgot to mention!” She jerked at the key on her neck and turned it around exposing the piece of metal glued to it. “I was _stupid_ enough to put a _tracker_ on me so that Jeremy knows _exactly_ where I am in order to send the police to the right coordinates!” She waved her hands in the air towards herself, “ _Stupid_ me I guess!”

John nodded his head as he shrugged, his mouth frowning, but his brows touching his hairline in astonishment, “That’s actually pretty brilliant.”

Sherlock glowered at him and then exchanged glances to Evelyn, “Brilliant and _stupid_.”

She groaned, “Dad! I’m not doing drugs! Accept that, _please_! I did this to keep other kids at school from getting hooked _because_ of the promise I made you!” She shook her head as she grabbed his arm, “I didn’t forget, Dad. Please, _believe_ me.”

Sherlock started at the sound of Jeremy’s voice in his ear, _“Hey, um, Mr. Holmes? Erm, can you give me to Evelyn?”_

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he picked the piece from his ear and handed it to the confused looking Evelyn. She accepted it and after wiping it off, placed it in her own ear.

“What’s going on?”

She heard Jeremy tapping at the keys and his nervous breath out, “ _Alright, so I finally hacked into the CCTV camera on the corner of the store and you’re about to have some company. Can you get out safe or what do you want me to do?”_

Her eyes blew wide and she laughed in spite of herself, “No way! That’s brilliant! Well, the first part- not the second.” She grabbed an arm of both parties and began to pull them towards the back of the storage area. “Where are they? About how much time do we have?”

Jeremy hummed as he did the approximations in his head, “ _Erm, a couple of minutes. I called your uncle so he should be there soon, but I think your Brazilian freak is gonna get there before he does. There’s a lot of traffic right now.”_

Evelyn hummed to herself as she thought. _He wants me. If he finds me in here, he’ll try to take me or hurt me and there will be witnesses this time! Uncle Greg should be here soon and if they can catch him in the act, they’ll have the probable cause to arrest him and search him for the drugs! Perfect!_

John’s voice cut into her thoughts as he jerked against her hand, “What’s going on, Evelyn?”

She shot a glance towards him and stopped in her tracks. She shook her head knowing his inevitable reaction, “Daddy, look. Do you trust me?”

John shifted glances between Sherlock and her before answering warily, “Yes.”

She turned to Sherlock and asked the same, “Do you trust me, Dad?”

His face pinched in discomfort and he chewed on his lip, before he mumbled, “I suppose. Why?”

She half-smiled as she began to drag them to the back wall and behind some of the heavy-lifting equipment. She placed them next to each other behind a forklift and raised her hands to keep them there.

“Please. I need you to prove that you trust me, _right now_. We’re about to have some company and I need to get more evidence. But I _need_ you to not interfere or you’ll both get hurt.”

John puffed out his chest and scowled, “You don’t think that we’re going to let you put yourself in harm’s way, do you? Have you gone mad?”

She rolled her eyes and raised her hands again, “Daddy, I need you to! The evidence I have is lackluster, at best. I don’t think the police have a real reason to arrest him yet, but if they catch them in the act of-”

“No!” John interrupted, silencing her with a swift wave of his hand. “That is most absolutely _not_ going to happen! Besides, how do you even know you know they’re here?”

Evelyn flushed and twisted her feet on the ground, embarrassed, “We may or may not have hacked into Uncle Mycroft’s CCTV footage around the store.”

Sherlock sniffed out a small smile in spite of his anger and Evelyn’s heart lightened a considerable load.

She turned back to John and gestured to the front door of the storage area, “Look, either way, they’re gonna be here any minute and Uncle Greg is still on his way. We need to find something that he can arrest them for and we already know that they want _me_ , so if you’ve got a better plan, I’d _love_ to hear it!”

John chewed on his lip as he glared at her, seeing the ghost of his soldier spirit radiating from her and he couldn’t help but be warmed by its presence. He shook his head slowly and turned back to Sherlock, gesturing a hand towards her while crossing his arms, “Well?”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and he refused to raise his eyes from the ground, “Well _what_ , John?”

John shrugged off the animosity, “Well what are we going to do? She’s right you know.” He nodded in her direction, “The bloke already has it out for me, and we hardly have time to escape so what could we do that won’t get any one of us killed?”

Evelyn scuffed her boot on the floor and stepped warily towards Sherlock, “Please Dad.” She gently placed a hand on his forearm as a peace offering, “Let me do this. You can trust me.”

Sherlock huffed for a moment before looking down at her with wet eyes, “It’s not _you_ I don’t trust, Evelyn. I can’t protect you if you’re throwing yourself in the arms of a psychotic drug dealer!”

She chewed on her lip before Jeremy’s panicked voice blurted in her ear, “ _Look, I get that you all are having a moment, but they’re there! Get down or get out or whatever you’re gonna do! Your uncle said he’d be there within ten minutes so you’ve got to stay safe till then.”_

She nodded to herself and picked the glasses from Sherlock’s hand, placing them back on her nose before resting her other hand on his shoulder until his gaze met hers. “Dad, it’s gonna be fine. I’m… I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed at her tone of voice; she chewed her cheek and smiled sadly at him before pressing her fingertips between his neck and clavicle. His stern gray eyes fluttered shut as his knees buckled and she _oomf-ed_ as he fell towards her.

John leapt to her side and caught the unconscious detective, scowling at Evelyn as Sherlock’s curls bounced in his arms, “What the hell are you doing, Evelyn?!”

She started pacing backwards, her forlorn eyes fixed on John’s furious ones and she shook her head, voice trembling with each word through her grimace, “I… I have no idea… I’m sorry.”

She turned on her heel and broke into a full sprint, rounding the corner of boxes and leaving her fathers in the safety of the back of the storage area.

 

***

 

 _Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupid._ Evelyn scolded herself as she found herself under a light in the front of the storage area. _How could you be so stupid? Now everyone’s in danger, you great idiot!_

She rubbed her fingers in her palms and sucked in a large breath before she exhaled all of the shakes in her system. She stood straight and tall: a gladiator standing emotionless as she waited for the emperor’s hand to decide her fate.

She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin, swallowing the nerves in her stomach.

_The show must go on._

 

 _Ten minutes to go_.

 

The door opened slowly and she watched as not only the two men who had threatened her in the alleyway entered, but also a small group of their closest cohorts. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes was pungent and nearly made her head swim as they closed the distance and the young Brazilian man stood before her; arms clasped politely at his back.

He nodded his head towards her and his smile covered his true sneer, but only just. “ _Olá, linda_.”

She smiled and faux-curtsied, “ _Olá, bonitão_.”

His eyebrow twitched and he paced towards her, “Why did you run?”

She quirked her head as she smiled and she shrugged playfully. “I must admit that scary men in the shadows make me a little tense.”

The click of his heel became a metronome as he walked around her, arms still clasped behind his back, “I’m afraid you’ve made a rather poor choice, love. You took something of mine without paying for it.”

She plucked the back from her pocket and held it pointedly towards him but still close to her body, “If I recall correctly, you _gave_ this to me.” She smiled, quirking her brows towards him, “No take-backs, it’s rude!”

 

_Nine minutes._

 

She watched as the corner of his lips twitched with ire. He turned curtly and clapped his hands in front of him, now glaring at her.

“Do you think that I don’t know who you are, Senhorita Watson?”

She felt her spine tighten at her name, but she gave away no expression on her face besides a nonchalant shrug, “I suppose I should have used more hair dye.”

She gasped as the man was suddenly in her face, his breath fogging up what was left of her glasses, “Do you think that I have not noticed your observations of me? You’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side for _weeks_.”

She smirked like a petulant child and shifted on her hips, “Yes, well I’m not known for my geniality.”

The dark-skinned man pulled next to her ear, his hot breath sending gooseflesh down her neck as he grabbed painfully tight on her exposed waist, “Do you think that I do not know your father’s name? That I do not know the implications that this meeting will have on my business?” She stood firm and still as a statue as his teeth grazed across her earlobe, making her insides squirm, “Do you think that I do not know that they are in this building with us?”

She felt her eyes widen marginally since she hadn’t considered that yet, but she made the conscious effort to remain nonplussed, “You’re really going to have to work on your pick-up lines if that’s what you’re gonna use to persuade me to come with you.”

She hissed as she felt cool metal against her exposed flesh, but her eyes never left the dark brown ones before her. The soulless eyes creased as he bared his teeth, “No, Senhorita Watson. I think this will do just fine.”

 

***

 

“Shit!” John mumbled to himself as he watched his daughter prance away from him and directly into the line of fire. _Oh my God, I’m gonna kill that fucking kid._

John shook his husband on the ground until Sherlock began to stir marginally and groaned softly until John’s hand covered his mouth. The motion seemed to sober Sherlock instantaneously as he blinked into consciousness, struggling against the constricting force until his husband pulled close to his face and kissed his cheek.

“Stop, Sherlock. Be quiet.”

Sherlock’s wild green eyes focused on John’s and he nodded, raising his hands in surrender before John removed his palm from his lips.

“What’s going on?” He mumbled quietly, his head turning in every direction attempting to locate their daughter.

John shook his head and scowled, holding his hand out to Sherlock to pull him up, “Our daughter has gone all ‘hero’ on us. Greg should be here soon, but we need to watch what she does in case anything goes wrong.”

Sherlock rubbed at his head and sat up warily, “That’s your fault.”

John sniffed quietly and pursed his lips, “What do you mean? She’s investigating _crimes_ and I’m pretty sure that’s _your_ area.”

Sherlock half-smiled and stood slowly, pushing himself up on cracking knees, “I’m not a hero, John.” He tilted his head and straightened his jacket, “She got that bit from you.”

John flushed and made the effort to not stick out his tongue at Sherlock’s teasing and instead mumbled, “Bollocks.”

Sherlock smirked and peered around the stack of boxes, “Where did she go, then?”

John shrugged but peered around the edge along with him, “I don’t know, but we need to find out.”

 

***

 

 _Eight Minutes_.

 

The cool barrel of the gun sent gooseflesh down her exposed waist and ice into the pit of her stomach, she tried to remain as unperturbed as humanely possible. _Eight minutes. That’s it. Just waste time._

She smiled back at the dark-skinned man and shrugged, “Well yes, I suppose a gun does make for a decent persuading argument, but it _is_ rather boring.”

He snarled, shoving the barrel further into her soft underbelly, “Tell me, love, how boring is lead in your belly?”

She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck, but she just quirked her lips, “There are worse ways to go, I’m sure.”

She heard the almost-silent shuffle of clothes from behind her and she recognized that her audience had grown. She flushed, but only minutely, and she quirked her lips to take the attention off of her cheeks.

“Well then what do you want, Mr. Ruiz?” She asked, tilting her head. “You obviously don’t want to kill me or you would have done so already; drug lords have a thing about time, you know. You don’t really care about the small package of drugs that you gave me, since I’ve had them open in my hand and you haven’t reached out for them.” She narrowed her eyes at him expectantly, “So then, Mr. Ruiz; what do you want?”

The metal was thrust into her so forcefully she staggered back against the blow. The hot breath found its way onto her neck and she prickled like a caged dog, “Your father, Senhor Holmes, is here is he not?”

She jerked away from him and cocked an eyebrow in mock-shock, “Sherlock Holmes? You think he _followed_ me? Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Even if he knew you were here, I don’t think he’d bother. Drug crimes aren’t exactly very high on the ‘Thought-provoking Scale’ if you catch my drift.” She waved her hand carelessly away from her, “I’m sure he was called away on some interesting _murder_ before he even realized I was gone tonight.”

Jeremy’s voice jarred her as it surprisingly pierced her ear, “ _Evelyn, does he have a gun on you? Christ! Michael get Mr. Lestrade on the line again!”_

Jarrod frowned and tilted his head, “You think your own father wouldn’t come after you?”

She winced inwardly because she hated to say such awful things, but if it took his attention away from the ticking clock, she’d say just about anything. She chewed on her cheek and frowned, “Being a father require affection and _feelings_.” She spat the word with mock-disdain. “Unless you weren’t aware, Sherlock Holmes is a textbook _sociopath_.” She wrapped her arms around her feigning insecurity and contempt, “He’s not capable of _feeling_ anything but boredom.”

She then cocked an eyebrow at him and smiled sadly, “And if we’re gonna be honest, this is pretty boring.”

 

_Seven minutes._

 

Her right hand began to twitch, and anyone who wasn’t either Sherlock Holmes or John Watson would have missed the message, writing it off as a nervous spasm. Her first two fingers darted out towards the ground and then curled back into a half circle.

_V-C. V-C. V-C. V-C._

She continued, hoping that it would be enough to keep the two most important men in her life safe, but her stomach sank as she saw the fire in the Brazilian’s eyes light and knew that there would be no leaving this storage room without at least one round leaving its chamber.

Michael’s cracked-deep voice carried through her earpiece for only a moment, “ _Evelyn, love, he’s on his way! Please don’t get hurt! Please! Not while I’m watching and can’t do anything!”_

The dark-skinned man suddenly lit up like a firework and jerked in her face, “ _Você deitado cobra!”_

She felt the cold ground against her torso before she felt the hard blow against her face and red swam across her vision. The glasses flew from her face and skittered across the linoleum much to her chagrin facing her and right side-up.

She placed her palm against the floor and pushed herself slightly forward until a swift boot-covered kick to her shoulder blade threw her face-first back into the linoleum. She watched at the earpiece flew away from her and she knew that she was officially on her own.

_Fuck, that hurt! Seriously, what store lets shit like this go down in the back without checking on it? Damn Neanderthals!_

She groaned as she rolled back on her side and face the man towering over her and spat, crimson painting her saliva, “ _Eu posso levá-lo.”_

 _I can take it,_ she promised herself. She couldn’t be sure that Sherlock recognized the language, but if he did and he heard her, she made the promise to him, too. _I can take it_.

In frustration, the boot hit her again in the gut and she curled in around herself, gripping her torso.

_Six Minutes._

 

***

 

Sherlock gripped John around his chest as they watched the second blow to their daughter’s gut land with stunning accuracy.

John growled as he silently struggled against the longer arms that bound him, “Dammit Sherlock! Let me go!”

The dark curls pressed against his cheek, “Did you even look at her hand? ‘V-C’, Vatican Cameo- she’s warning us. If we run out there now, there’s a higher probability that either she or we are going to get shot. Would you prefer that to a few bruises?”

John growled against him and the struggling continued until Sherlock’s ear caught their daughter’s broken voice, “ _Eu posso levá-lo.”_

His stomach turned to ice and he gripped John tighter, mumbling into his neck, “She just said ‘ _I can take it_ ’. She’s trying to tell us she’s okay, but she’s just egging him on. Christ, John! She’s going to get herself killed!”

John stilled and turned towards Sherlock as the detective loosened his grip, his face set hard as stone, “We’ve _got_ to get his attention off her.” He jerked on Sherlock’s sleeve and stepped into the line of fire. “Come on!”

 

***

 

The dark eyes lit with fury as he leveled his gun with Evelyn’s bleeding face, “ _Você pode levá-lo? Você criança miserável! Tome este então!”_

The safety clicked off and Evelyn braced herself for the sound of gunfire before she heard John’s deep, panicked voice permeate the room, “Stop! Don’t shoot!”

Both the girl and the young man turned their heads towards the sand-haired doctor with his hands surrendered in the air. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

The young man pointed his gun at John’s face and snarled, “On your knees! Get on your knees! _Agora_!”

John complied, easing on to his knees with his hands still raised in the air. Evelyn shot him a sorrowful look and mouthed, ‘I’m Sorry’. His stern eyes caught the words from her mouth, but made no expression towards her and only turned his gaze back to the man with the gun.

His unyielding, sturdy Captain Watson voice emanated from him as he pleaded with the criminal, “Look, I know that it’s Sherlock and I that you want, so let the girl go.”

The gun nodded at him as the mad man trembled with ire, “The only one I want is the one not here! Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

Evelyn pushed herself from the floor with shaking hands as she shook her head warily, “I told you already. He’s _not here_. Doctor Watson over there came to find me because he was worried. Sociopaths don’t feel concern.” She gestured weakly towards the exit, “You’ll have to go out and find him if you’re that keen on bloodshed.”

John gaped at her for a moment before deciding to pay along, “She’s right. He’s not here. Now let her go. I’m enough ransom for you; there’s no need for the excess baggage.”

Evelyn chanced a quick quirk of her lips towards him in approval.

_Five minutes._

Jarrod Ruiz thrust another boot-clad foot into Evelyn’s gut in frustration and she gasped as the wind was knocked clean from her lungs. She coughed and sputtered as she tried to regain her inhalation patterns before the man began to speak again. He waved his arms dramatically towards his cohorts and pointed them in a myriad of directions.

_“Eu não acredito que eles! Vá agora! Pesquisar em todos os lugares. Se Sherlock Holmes está aqui, eu quero que ele a meus pés!”_

The group of men flocked away from him in every direction leaving just the three of them under the light.

Evelyn sat up straight, clutching at her sides and grinned at the gunman. “You’re pretty pathetic you know.”

John’s navy eyes blew wide in alarm and his voice croaked, “Evelyn, stop…”

The Brazilian drew up a hand and slapped her across the face, pulling his face near her in order to sneer in her personal space, “What did you say, _putinha?_ ”

She pulled herself back towards him, stretching her jaw from the blow and shot a glance of confidence towards John before her eyes locked with the dark orbs staring at her.

“You’ve just started your reign in this drug ring and you’ve already been thwarted by a seventeen-year-old girl. That’s pretty pitiful don’t you think? Your father is dying, most likely a combination of drug habits, old age, and bad genes and he entrusted everything to you. Really it was a terrible idea and you _know it_.”

John shifted on his knees uncomfortably and his body trembled with anxiety that echoed in his voice, “Evelyn, please _don’t_ -”

“You’re what? Twenty-five? _Maybe_?” She interrupted, her eyes never breaking away from the Brazilian’s. “Destroying one of the most affluent drug rings with poor management by that age is actually a pretty impressive feat, I must admit. Your wife must be proud.” She shrugged, “Or at least she has to pretend that she is. It must be strange to have a wife that could be your daughter. Do children make you _feel_ good? I mean I guess when you buy them and they don’t know anything else… Practice makes perfect, right?”

She could feel the fury heating up his skin as his cheeks neared hers and his furious speech threw spit onto her cheeks with the proximity.

“ _Você vai pagar por isso sua vadia!”_

He shifted the barrel of his gun from John to her, but before the trigger clicked, a dark shadow gripped around his arms and heaved him back.

An ebony suit with matching curls swung the Brazilian around and threw him and his gun to the ground away from Evelyn.

John jumped to his feet and ran towards Sherlock-

_CRACK._

 

The gun discharged at nothing in the struggle of the three men.

_Four minutes._

_Five bullets._

 

Sherlock growled as he took a violent elbow to the chest and John reached over to grip the man in a lock, but his arms slipped away from his grip.

 

Evelyn jumped to her feet to pull the gun from the man’s hands before his gang of thugs made their way back to the Baker Street family. The trigger slipped twice.

 

_CRACK._

 

 

_CRACK.  
_

 

_Three minutes._

_Two bullets_.

 

Sherlock took an unlucky punch to the nose that threw him off-balanced and into John, sending them both sprawling on the floor until Sherlock’s curled head smacked loudly against the hard floor, stunning him.

The man scrambled to his feet and aimed the gun at the two seething men, but Evelyn’s arm smacked against his and the second to last shot cracked into the air.

 

_CRACK._

 

She tackled him to the ground and thrashed about until John ripped her off of his writhing body, placing himself between the two struggling young people.

Evelyn’s eyes widened in fear at John as she watched the gun rise behind him and crack against the back of his head; his brilliant dark navy eyes un-focusing before fluttering shut.

She shivered as the gun retracted from his skull with a bright sheen of crimson on the bottom of the dark, cold silver and she grunted as his weight toppled over her. She pushed John gently off of her and scrambled to her feet as she watched the man zero-in on Sherlock’s dazed frame.

_Shitshitshitshitshit. Myfaultmyfaultmyfault. A bullet travels around fifteen-hundred kilometers an hour. It will go right through his skull and out the other side at this distance. Christ! Too far to knock the gun away so a shot is eminent. Dad will die in less than three seconds if I can’t do something._

_Three._

 

_What can I do? Shit! What CAN I do?_

 

_Two._

 

_Oh my God! Don’t panic- just think!_

 

 

_One._

 

Something burned in her and thrust her body towards the man still trying to regain his focus on the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

_CRACK._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I just kind of have a thing for cliffhangers and breaking hearts... 3


	19. Bullets of Lead, Nerves of Steel

  _Silence._

 

 

 

 

Nothing moved and no one dared to breathe as the group attempted to find out where the stray bullet had lodged itself.

Sherlock pushed himself from the ground and felt his chest for any wounds that shock would have prevented him from feeling. After finding nothing, he lifted his gaze and found that the Brazilian was staring, not at him, but at the brunette girl standing not even a meter in front of him. His dark eyes wide with shock before his palm relinquished the gun to the ground where it slid across the floor with a tinny clatter.

The detective’s gray-green eyes shot from the startled drug-lord to the girl still standing in front of him until he gasped in horror as he watched a dribble of blood stream down her exposed waist.

_No._ He willed the blood to disappear as his heart began to palpitate in his chest and thrum in his ears and his head shook numbly. _Nononononononono. Please, dear God._

The young girl shuffled her left foot in an awkward half-step backwards and her legs crumpled beneath her. Her head slumped forward as her body wilted back and she hit the linoleum with a sickly _thud_.

“Oh my God!” The throaty cry filled the air still ringing with the echoes of gunfire, and Sherlock weakly pulled himself to the girl lying on the ground.

He didn’t notice the Brazilian running away.

He didn’t notice crack of doors swinging open.

He didn’t notice D.I. Lestrade’s voice resounding through the room.

He only heard the deafening silence ringing in his ears as he pulled himself up to loom over Evelyn’s body.

She moaned slightly at him as the crimson fluid pulsed with alarming speed from her chest, just above her heart. Sherlock ripped off his jacket and pressed down on the wound, the blood soaking the fabric and reaching his fingers in record time and his entire body turned to ice despite the unnerving heat. “Evelyn! What have you _done_? You stupid, _stupid_ girl!” He shook his head violently as emotion tightened his chest. “Why would you _do_ that?”

Evelyn seemed to opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock lifted a bloody hand to her lips and mumbled, “No, don’t. Just stay awake, okay?”

He felt his body tremble with restrained sobs and the heat of tears prickled in his eyes before making themselves known down his cheeks.

His voice quivered as he brushed the brunette locks from her face and cupped her cheek with his free trembling hand, “Evelyn, you’re going to be fine. Don’t be frightened; I’ll take care of you, alright? You’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

His lips quivered as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and she whimpered as she gasped for air. Her body hitched a few times from the loss of blood and Sherlock pressed harder into her wound; the now saturated coat only marginally holding the pulsing blood back from escaping.

He shook his head and saline dripped onto his daughter’s cheek, “No, I promised I’d keep you safe. _Oh my God-_ just breathe.” He pressed his forehead to hers and she whimpered against at the contact. He felt her brow furrow and her body tremble and he looked down to see the tears creep from her eyes dragging eyeliner down the side of her face. She met his gaze with quivering lips and raised her hands flashing them splayed out across her chest twice before Sherlock got the message.

He chewed his lip and shook his head minutely as he rubbed her cheek with his thumb, “I know you’re frightened, love. I’m frightened, too. But I need you to be b-brave and stay awake okay?”

Her body convulsed in sob/cough and a trickle of blood escaped her lips. Sherlock’s already pallid face paled even more considerably and his eyes widened in alarm as more tears filled his eyes. She blinked slowly at him before she smiled weakly, raising her right hand towards him. She splayed her quaking fingers out, holding her middle and ring finger towards her palm.

Sherlock glanced at the sign, and then shook his head fervently, “No. No, Evelyn, don’t do that. Not yet. Don’t give up; please, sweetheart. I- I need you to just focus and stay awake, okay?”

Blood seeped through his fingers as her body jolted on the ground underneath him again. Her eyes blinked slowly until they stopped opening and Sherlock patted her face gently, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Little bird, wake up. Come on, love.”

Her eyes fluttered back open and she wheezed as her breathing began to hitch. The squeaking whimper she made broke his heart and he gripped at the soaked jacket until his knuckles faded to a bright white beneath the crimson.

Her slightly parted lips twitched and she flicked her wrist to get his attention. He nodded and he half-smiled through his sobs, “I know, darling. I- I love you, too.” He entwined his fingers in hers as she shuddered again and his voice cracked, “If- if you love me, stay awake; can do you that? Please, Evelyn, don’t… _Oh God_ …”

He heard the echo of a deep panicked voice as he watched her eyelids flutter closed and he head loll to the side. He could feel his heart stop as if hers was the one keeping them both alive.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

Just-

The deep mumble echoed again and he felt heat on his shoulder pushing him back as he stared at his unconscious daughter’s bloody face.

He bit his lip and his hands continued to press against his daughter’s chest until a warm tanned hand pulled at his wrists.

“Sherlock, back up!”

The muffled echo barely made sense in his mottled mind and he looked up slowly to find Lestrade’s panicked face right in front of him, yelling incomprehensible words at him. His lowered his gaze and found several people pushing past him to get to Evelyn and out of instinct and threw himself down on her chest covering her.

“N-no! D-don’t touch her! I-I need to keep her safe!” His broken voice echoed in his mind until he felt pressure on his chest lifting him away. He struggled, but his weakened spirit was no match for the strength of the seasoned D.I.

He watched numbly as a group of strangers began to touch and prod and stick things on his daughter and a throaty cry escaped his lips. He felt even heavier pressure on his chest as Lestrade hugged him tightly against him.

“Sherlock, calm down!” The words rang in his ears and his head turned back to see Lestrade’s damp eyes curled in a frown back at him. The D.I.’s grip never relaxed so Sherlock was forced to lean back against his chest and watch from the sidelines as fear gripped his heart and his lungs refused to function and he choked.

Lestrade straightened up and lifted Sherlock’s jaw away from his chest and mumbled into his ear, “Come on, mate, breathe! In through your nose, out through your mouth, Sherlock, come on!”

Sherlock attempted to comply, but as he watched Evelyn’s body being lifted and taken away from him, terror filled his veins and he kicked out with the lack of oxygen. His head spun, and he pressed hard against Lestrade’s chest as he lost control of his body’s muscles and strangled half-gasps filled his throat.

Lestrade jerked his head forward again and his deep voice commanded in his ear, “Come on, Sherlock!”

He pinched his eyes shut and forced himself to relax.

_Breathe! Where’s John? You can’t help anyone if you pass out. Breathe! Pull yourself together, breathe!_

He blinked profusely as his vision cleared and full breaths filled his lungs.

Lestrade’s grip loosened on him marginally as he mumbled in his ear, “Sherlock, I need you to relax before I sedate you, alright mate? Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock nodded fervently and swallowed a few deep breaths to prove his compliance.

“John,” he gasped out as soon as he could find his broken voice. “Where’s John?”

Sherlock could feel Lestrade’s fingertips press into his skin as his voice growled from behind him, “John’s on his way to the hospital, too. He took a nasty blow to the head and he wasn’t responsive. Look, you’re gonna be all right; I’ll ride with you to the A and E.” He patted gently against Sherlock’s pectoral, “Do you think you can walk?”

Sherlock held his breath for a moment and pinched his eyes tight together again.

_This is your fault. You didn’t keep them safe and now they’re both in the hospital. Now get over there and fix what you broke._

As if he could read Sherlock’s mind, Lestrade hugged him tighter to his chest, “It’s not your fault, Sherlock. It’s nobody’s fault besides that punk we have in handcuffs. Just relax so we can get you checked out, alright mate?”

Sherlock exhaled shakily and nodded. Lestrade released his grip and maneuvered around Sherlock before getting to his feet and extending his hand to the detective on the ground.

Sherlock gripped his hand firmly and pulled himself up, only to have his knees buckle slightly as he reached his full height and the D.I. caught his weight on his shoulder before helping him walk from the back of the storage area and out onto the street.

He turned on the ignition and drove straight for the hospital, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

Lestrade chanced a glance at his friend and his heart sank.

There was no way that he could describe Sherlock’s body language and visage besides… _empty_ and it broke his heart.

He lifted his left hand and placed it gently on Sherlock’s knee as he drove and the younger detective shuddered at the contact.

Lestrade chewed his cheek and kept his eyes on the road as he spoke.

“It’s gonna be all right, Sherlock. I’ll be with you the entire time if you want.”

Sherlock shuddered and silent tears reappeared on his high cheeks.

Lestrade’s throat closed with emotion as he rubbed his thumb into his friend’s knee.

He had always hated silent sobs. He’d rather listen to someone wail for hours than to watch soundless tears stream down someone’s face because he knew that those were the kinds of tears that didn’t just express sadness. He knew that silent tears were the unstoppable ones; the ones so filled with distraught emotions that the heart can’t restrain them from escaping.

He hated those kinds of tears.

And he hated them even more so coming from Sherlock Holmes.

 

***

 

_That should have hurt a little more,_ she thought to herself.

Evelyn had known in the middle of her carrying out her split-second decision, that it would hurt- immensely and she had been prepared for it.

What she hadn’t been prepared for, though, was the empty shock that permeated through her frame as the lead entered her system.

She could feel the shot, most definitely; but her first sensation was not of pain, but of overwhelming warmth.

She blinked as she looked down to the wound and she was almost shocked to see a stream of blood pulse from her chest.

Her mind froze as she shut her eyes.

She found herself in her mind palace staring at the library and she could feel her chest caving in.

The books on her shelves began to tremble and several fell from their perches onto the floor. She gripped at her chest and jogged through the library before she found her section on first-aid. She flipped through the pages and read out loud.

“Is the bullet inside or out?” She grimaced, “Fuck I don’t know! Wait! You didn’t hear it hit the ground or Dad so it must still be…” She looked down at her torso.

“Inside of you.”

A familiar voice finished her sentence and her library shone with golden light. She glanced up from the book and found John standing in her palace alongside her, pointing his hand towards the page she was on.

“Daddy?”

He smiled lightly, but pointed back to her book. “It’s still inside you, little bird. It’s in your chest so you’re not gonna have the ability to do anything besides decide which way you’re gonna fall, and that is incredibly important at this point. So what is it going to be?”

She pinched her nose and mumbled, “Back?”

John moved around and placed his hands on her shoulder, smiling as he nodded in agreement. “Back.”

He thrust her gently and she lost balance on her feet.

Outside of her palace, she felt the chill of the linoleum on her bare skin where her wait was exposed. She shut her eyes again momentarily and found herself bouncing between reality and her mind palace.

She opened her eyes and found her books shuddering and falling from their shelves all around her almost as if an earthquake were taking place inside her mind. Blue light sparked in her mind as Sherlock’s voice echoed in the hall. “Evelyn! What have you _done_? You stupid, _stupid_ girl! Why would you do that?”

She furrowed her brow and waved her hands dramatically towards the window, hoping her sentence would actually make it outside of her real lips, “Isn’t it obvious, Dad? I saved your life! You should be a little more appreciative!”

A shudder went through the library and another set of books were launched from their perches and onto the ground. The aura of violet filled her library and she turned to find her Uncle Mycroft leaning against a table in the main foyer of the room.

She ran to him and gestured at her body, “Uncle Mycroft! What do I do?”

He gently grabbed her hand and smiled his politician smile, “What happens when someone gets shot?”

She furrowed her brow as she dug through her thoughts, “They go into shock.”

“Yeah, and that’s a bloody terrible idea right about now.”

Green pulsed as Jeremy’s voice filled the room and she looked up to find him leaning against the table alongside her uncle.

She shook her head, “Okay, but what do I _do_?”

Jeremy stood and pressed a large hand over her heart and pressed, “Relax. Don’t freak out. Focus and you might pull through, okay?”

Mycroft clicked his umbrella against the wooden floor and sighed, “Don’t panic. My brother won’t handle you getting shot very well, so don’t let his anxiety frighten you.”

She blinked and startled at finding Sherlock’s face only inches away from hers, his hand covering her mouth as if she had tried to speak.

“Evelyn, you’re going to be fine. Don’t be frightened; I’ll take care of you, alright? You’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

The deep voice cracked uncharacteristically and she shivered at the sound. She felt the blood pulse from her chest as her heart began to burn vibrantly from within her.

Her father pressed trembling lips to her forehead and she emitted a small choked noise at the contact.

His gray-green eyes were shining with tears and it broke her bleeding heart to witness his despair.

His cupid bow lips parted, but quivered with fear and her cheeks damped with Sherlock’s warmth, “No, I promised I’d keep you safe. _Oh my God-_ just breathe.”

She felt her chest begin to tighten with emotion and her mind raced.

_Christ, Dad! I’m trying NOT to go into shock! You’re freaking me out, stop!_

Knowing it would be unwise to speak in her condition she raised her hands and flashed the sign for “fear” across her chest. Her father caught the meaning after a few tried and he rubbed at her cheek reassuringly.

“I know you’re frightened, love. I’m frightened, too. But I need you to be b-brave and stay awake okay?”

She blinked again and opened her eyes to find her library falling apart at the seams. Mycroft and Jeremy were still standing next to the table, even as books were launched from the shelves and onto the floor all around them.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at her, “I told you.”

She growled at him and exchanged glances with Jeremy. “What’s going to happen next?”

Jeremy picked a medical encyclopedia from the ground and opened it to a page depicting a clinical illustration of a human torso, pointing to where her bullet wound was.

“Here’s where you got shot. The trauma is gonna cause you to spit out some blood, okay? It’s gonna taste like shit, but you can’t let it send you into shock.” He smirked as he looked back at her, “Oh yeah, and Mr. Holmes is gonna freak the fuck out.”

She blinked again and a sharp pain caused her to cough and true to Jeremy’s word, iron coated her tongue and she felt the excess dribble from her lips.

Also true to Jeremy’s word, her father went as white as a brand new sheet of paper and his sobs became more violent. He gaped his mouth as if to speak, but no words escaped besides a strangled cry.

She tried to smile to reassure him and she felt her heart warm at the sight of his comforting face. She smiled because she knew that no matter how old she was and no matter what trouble she got herself into, that she would always be his little bird; something he needed to protect. She decided to explain her gratitude as she raised her hand and signed, “I love you”.

Contrary to her intentions, Sherlock seemed disheartened by her affections. “No. No, Evelyn, don’t do that. Not yet. Don’t give up; please, sweetheart. I- I need you to just focus and stay awake, okay?”

She grimaced as her body tensed in agony and she could feel the breath escape her lungs. Her eyes fluttered shut with the impact and she opened them to find Jeremy gripping her shoulders, dark hunter green pulsing in her demolished library as his panicked voice boomed.

“Evelyn! You’re about to go into shock if you don’t relax! Close your eyes and _breathe_!”

The room then glowed gold as John came from behind her and he went over her entire body with his gaze. He placed a hand on her cheek and frowned slightly.

“Evelyn, sweetheart, you’ve got maybe ten seconds of consciousness left. You need to relax, but you also need to reassure your father that you’re gonna be all right or he’s going to go into shock, too. Not the same kind of course, but if we can keep him safe, we need to. Can you do that, love?”

She nodded and shut her eyes, opening them to find Sherlock patting on her cheek. He mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out and she could see the edges of her vision going black.

Her head felt like a mixture of pain and cotton and she flicked her wrist to mollify her father with her sentiments.

She saw him smile and heard his deep voice soothe slightly through his sobs, “I know, darling. I- I love you, too.”

She smiled to herself as her hand was encased in warmth from his and she projected as much love, concern, and confidence through her gaze at him before she felt his warm breath become cool as her eyes shut to the comforting sound of Sherlock’s voice. She opened her eyes again and neither her mind palace nor her father’s face appeared before her.

Darkness enveloped her and she was powerless to fight it.

 

***

 

It didn’t take long for Mycroft to find him in the end. But then again, it never did. As much as he hated to admit it, his brother knew him just as well as he knew himself.

Sherlock pulled his aging knees tighter to his body as he leaned back against the wall on the roof. It had surly been a beautiful night; the clouds had dissipated and left the sky alight with billions of burning balls of gas.

_Stupid solar system,_ Sherlock mumbled in his mind.

He heard the door unlatch and all-too-measured steps making their way towards him, but he made to effort to acknowledge their presence. As he saw the umbrella swing in his peripheral vision, he turned his head away like a petulant child and stared unseeingly at the far wall on off the balcony.

He heard the footsteps stop less than a meter away and braced himself for a lecture on sentimentality, but was surprised to hear the shuffle of clothes and warmth lean against him.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Mycroft said dully as he straightened his back against the wall and stretched his legs out straight.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and rubbed his sore face farther into his blood-stained sleeve.

Mycroft hummed in agreement and laid his umbrella gently at his side, locking his fingers in his lap.

_This is your fault, you idiot._ Sherlock berated himself. _If you weren’t like you are, she wouldn’t have learned to follow you._

Mycroft’s voice, uncharacteristically soft and gentle pierced his thoughts. He always knew what Sherlock was thinking, even if he hated to admit it.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

 Sherlock growled into his shirtsleeve without looking up, “Why must _everyone_ assume that I am blaming myself? Can I not grieve in silence?”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft did not prickle at the outburst, and instead leaned farther into his shoulder, “Because, brother dear, that is what you do. I’ve seen you grieve and I’ve seen your bouts of self-loathing. It does not take a Holmes to distinguish the two.”

The detective opened his mouth to retort, but was startled to find a pale, freckled hand creep over his shoulder; his side flush against his older brother’s.

He turned his head and found Mycroft’s face, not sympathetic, but empathetic. Their eyes did not meet, so Sherlock lowered his gaze and leaned his chin down on his blood-stained chest.

His brother’s palm pressed against his shoulder and he found himself reluctantly leaning into Mycroft’s embrace as his mind shot back nearly half a century at the muscle memory.

 

“You’re going to be all right, Sherlock. Redbeard just went away. Pets do that sometimes.”

Sherlock had shivered and trembled with tears as Mycroft held his ten-year-old body in his lap. He shook his head violently and cried out, “No! He was my _friend_! I want him back!”

The seventeen-year old Mycroft only gripped him tighter to his torso as they sat in Sherlock’s closet: from which Sherlock hadn’t emerged from for almost two days straight. He raised a hand and ran his finger through Sherlock’s unruly curls and rested his cheek on the crown of his head.

“Sherlock, you know that can’t happen. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He felt Sherlock’s miniature body curl up in tension as another sob wracked his body, “Because I miss him…”

Mycroft hummed in understanding and pet his younger brother’s head affectionately, “I know, Sherlock. Just think… erm… if you don’t want it to hurt, just remember: Caring is not an advantage. Otherwise, it’s always going to hurt, do you understand?”

Sherlock sobbed even more profusely into his brother’s jumper and the closet became stuffy with his heated tears. Mycroft rubbed on his arm and shhh-ed him. “I’ve got you, Sherlock. You’re going to be all right. I’ve got you.”

 

“I’ve got you, Sherlock.”

The detective opened his eyes to find his face soaked and pressed against Mycroft’s three-piece suit. He hadn’t even realized that he had fallen forward, nor that he had started sobbing in his big brother’s presence.

Just as it had been before, Mycroft’s head rested against Sherlock’s curls and his arm gently stroked up and down on Sherlock’s arm.

He suddenly hiccupped ungracefully with tears and Mycroft gripped his arm with security, “I know, Sherlock. I’m worried, too.”

Finally taking notice of his position, Sherlock pressed his hand down on the roof floor and removed himself from Mycroft’s embrace. He straightened his back and turned his head away from his brother and wiped his face on his stained sleeve, attempting to salvage any dignity he still possessed.

His older brother leaned back against the wall and hummed contently as he lifted his gaze back to the sky.

The silence stretched out for a long while before Sherlock broke it with a surprisingly steady voice.

“What did I do?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and tilted his head towards his brother for more explanation, “In what sense?”

Sherlock’s striking jaw line tensed as his lifted his gaze to stare at the open sky, making sure to not meet his brother’s eyes. “What did I do to have so many _good_ people sacrifice for me? It doesn’t make sense.” He thrust his hand out angrily as he tensed his jaw. “John and Evelyn are beautiful, pure hearts and they both throw themselves in harm’s way to protect me. Why?” He clenched his fist and slammed it against the hard floor. “I’m not a moral soul, and we both know it. Why would they waste what precious light they were given to save such a broken, offensive old man? It doesn’t make any _sense!_ What did I do to deserve such magnificence and light when all I bring into the world is darkness and contempt? Why would they _do_ that? _”_

Mycroft’s thin smile twitched and he leaned back against the wall, humming in understanding.

“Sentiment.”

Sherlock sighed and slumped back against the wall and repeated the disdainful word with a mocking tone,

“Sentiment.”

 

***

 

“Fuck, my head…”

Sherlock, sitting at the side of his hospital bed, startled at John’s vulgar first words and rubbed gently at his hand, smiling.

“Good morning to you, as well, love.”

John peeled open one eye and his lips curved in a smile at the sight of his husband, “Hey, Sherlock.”

The long fingers traced nonsensical patterns in to his palm as the brilliant gray-blue eyes creased in an honest smile, “Hello, John.”

John huffed a small laugh at Sherlock’s formality and entwined the long fingers in his. He blinked his navy eyes both open and inhaled deeply; the scent of alcohol and hospital laundry filling his lungs. He turned his head to either side, wincing at the bandages at the back of his head and he lowered his gaze as he turned back to Sherlock.

He cleared his throat and furrowed his brow as his head began to throb, “What happened?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and raised his cheeks as his eyes smiled, “How cliché, John.”

John rolled his eyes until he pinched them shut quickly at the discomfort, “Bugger off, you arse.”

Sherlock gripped at his hand tighter and stood up as he leaned forward and over the bed barricades, planting a light kiss to John’s lips. The doctor smiled and returned the gesture before he noticed the tremor in it.

He pulled back as far as his hospital bed would allow and his eyes bounced between Sherlock’s while he tried to deduce the issue.

“Sherlock, you’re trembling. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock fluttered his eyes as he sat down and lowered his gaze, “John, you’ve had a serious concussion and I don’t know if you need to hear this before you’re out of the ‘danger-period’.”

John flushed with anger and gripped Sherlock’s hand with a vicious strength, narrowing his eyes at him, “Damn the ‘danger-period’ Sherlock! Tell me what’s wrong or so help me.”

Sherlock visibly shied at his threat but made no effort to remove his hand from John’s vice-like grip, but instead lowering his head, knowing that it wouldn’t take his husband long to discover the inevitable truth.

John growled at his noncompliant husband then leveled his gaze across the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary so he turned his attentions to himself.

_Wiggle toes? Good. Finger motion? Good. Shift hips? Good. I can talk. I can see. I can hear. There’s nothing broken and I’ve just got a concussion. What’s wrong?_

He furrowed his brow in confusion until he noticed the severe trembling in Sherlock’s hands and he relaxed his grip into a more affectionate one. He glanced around the room one last time before his heart sank and he finally made the connection. His heart monitor began to sky rocket as the realization of the missing party member set in.

“Evelyn,” he mumbled under his breath. “Sherlock, where is Evelyn?”

He caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s lips quivering as if he were about to cry, but the notion was so fleeting that he almost thought he had imagined it. The detective refused to raise his eyes, but his free hand raked through his unruly locks before dragging down his face. Every moment of silence sent John’s heart monitor into an accelerando of beeping and Sherlock finally exhaled a long breath he had been holding in his chest.

“That man struck you in the back of the head with his gun and when you collapsed, he aimed it at me, still loaded with a single bullet,” he mumbled to the ground.

John stiffened against his bed and lifted his chin. A soul of a soldier never yields when presented with heartbreak and John Watson decided that he was not about to break the unwritten rule.

The tremor in Sherlock’s jaw was prominent and undeniable as he opened his mouth to speak again and John’s entire body turned to ice, “I wasn’t even aware of his intentions until…” He drifted off and John could hear his teeth chatter in his mouth.

The detective’s breath hitched and his grip tightened on the doctor’s hand as a tear slid down his long nose and dripped off the tip, “John, I couldn’t stop it! It would have been a fatal shot for me, and she knew it and she cast herself in its path!”

John’s head lolled back against his pillow as he attempted to blink back his emotions. He bit his trembling lip and only cast one open eye to Sherlock’s voice.

“John, I’m sorry… I couldn’t stop her… She’s-” he sucked in a trembling breath as his shoulders hitched, “she’s in surgery right now, but John it wasn’t an amateur shot! She just-!” He waved a free hand in the air and raised his glistening eyes to his husband’s, “I don’t know what to do, John. I have these feelings in me and I don’t know what they are or how to cope with them and I-”

John pressed their combined hands to Sherlock’s lips, effectively ending his rambling and he blinked the emotion away as he cleared his throat, “I’ll explain the sentiments in a moment, love, but I need the facts. What happened?”

Sherlock thinned his lips and pinched his eyes as he swallowed audibly and pressed his cupid’s bow to John’s hand. He took a steadying breath and shook his head minutely.

“She was shot in the chest; right near her heart.” His eyes widened in distress, “There was so much blood, and I thought she was going to die in my arms, and she almost did, but the doctor said the bullet completely missed the auxiliary artery so that’s why she didn’t bleed out right there.”

He tilted his head as his hands gestured to his own chest, “The bullet nicked her scapula and lodged itself in her chest, and it didn’t hit anything major, but John,” he shook his head and the silver-tinged curls bounced with the motion, “there was so much blood! I tried to keep it in her, but it was all over me and the floor and I kept pressing it back but-!” His stomach lurched and he swallowed it down discernibly as his jaw tensed.

John released his hand from Sherlock’s grip and lowered the bars on his bed before scooting over and patting on the empty side of his mattress. The detective needed no second offer and climbed into the single bed and wrapped his arms around his husband’s torso, his head securing itself in the crook of John’s neck.

John’s warm hand caressed the thin detective’s back as it shivered with distress. “She’ll be fine,” he mumbled into the dark curls. “She’s a Watson. We’re damn near indestructible if you haven’t noticed.” He pressed his lips into the ebony waves as his neck dampened with Sherlock’s overwhelmed emotions. The detective’s lips curved as he choked out a small laugh, but his hand’s only gripped at John’s shirt more securely.

“How long has she been in surgery? Have you talked to any of the nurses?” John asked gently as he rested his cheek on Sherlock’s crown.

The taller man shook his head and sighed; the last of his anxious tears subsiding in the wake of John’s unwavering support, “I can’t tell. They won’t let me in and I’ve not been of much use to anyone as of recent. I spent a bit out on the roof until Mycroft found me and I’ve been sitting in here since then.”

John’s hand flattened against Sherlock’s shoulder blades and rubbed gently through the thin fabric of his shirt. He winced as he noticed the rusty red barely being hidden by Sherlock’s rolled up sleeve and his first instincts to lighten the mood kicked in, “You know, for someone who deals so often in and studies blood and gore, you don’t seem to handle it very well in person.”

Instead of his intended reaction, Sherlock seemed to recoil into himself. He shook his head lamely and his voice was merely a whisper above the hum of the air conditioning in the hospital.

“I don’t,” he mumbled. “It didn’t seem real. My brain wouldn’t obey me and I couldn’t think and I’ve never felt so…” his eyes darted back and forth before he could find a word suitable, “ _useless_.”

He swallowed and sighed sadly as his long fingers gripped at John, “John, she might _die_. Our daughter might die and it’s all my fault!”

John shhh-ed him as he rubbed his nose in the shaking curls, “Sherlock, why would you think it’s your fault? You did what you could do. I’m not sure that even an old army doctor could have done anything better than putting pressure on it. You weren’t useless and you still aren’t, so stop this nonsense.”

Sherlock curled in tighter around John’s form and pressed his head down. Just then, a nurse flitted into the room and cleared her throat to make her presence known.

John lifted his head to see her over Sherlock’s curls and smiled warily at her, “Yes?”

The nurse shuffled awkwardly on her feet as she flipped something on her clipboard, “Evelyn Watson is out of surgery.” She paused as the detective lifted his head in her direction and his stunning gaze pinned her to the spot and she stammered, “Sh-she’ll make a full recovery, just so you know. She was incredibly lucky that it didn’t nick anything major, but she’ll be out for the next few hours, so I suggest if you,” she gestured to Sherlock, “haven’t slept, you might want to take advantage of the time before she wakes up.”

She smiled gleefully as she watched the two men dissolve into relief and stunted joy, arms wrapping around each other tightly as the sandy-haired man wiped gracelessly at his face removing the surprise from his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly. “Thank you so much.”

She nodded, “You’re welcome, sir.” She bowed herself out of the door and left the two men in each other’s arms.

“See?” John huffed as he wiped his face again, finally smiling a true grin, “We Watsons are made of steel.”

Sherlock chewed on his lip and gripped his husband to him, “You have nerves of steel, not flesh. It doesn’t correlate.”

John shook his head and jostled the detective with his free hand, “Go take a quick shower and change into something. If Mycroft’s here, I’m sure you’ve a set of clothes to change into.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb on Sherlock’s damp, prominent cheek, “Then we can go and check on our little girl, okay?”

The detective met the doctor’s gaze and nodded numbly, easing himself away from the hospital bed and as he did so, as if summoned, Mycroft appeared in the hospital room with a small bag in either hand.

He smiled and delivered one to his younger brother while maintaining his grip on the other. He nodded at John and smiled, “It’s nice to see you doing well, John.”

John shrugged and smiled back, “It’s nice to see you, too, Mycroft.”

Sherlock picked at the bag in his hands nervously and he spoke to the ground softly, “Evelyn just made it out of surgery, Mycroft. She’s going to be fine.”

Mycroft’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he turned with an honest smile towards his brother, “Very well. I suppose that you two will be accompanying her in her room soon enough, so you’ll need these clothes sooner than anticipated. I will join you in her room when you are finished.”

He nodded towards both of the men and his umbrella clicked back out of the door.

Sherlock gripped at the bag in his hands nervously as John sat up warily and smiled at him, “Go get dressed, love. We’ll be okay. Evelyn’s going to be fine and everything is going to blow over eventually, all right?”

Sherlock nodded numbly and turned into the hospital bathroom connected to John’s room.

The doctor sighed and leaned back against his mattress with a huff. He dragged a hand down his cheek and chuckled to himself,

“Christ, between the kid and the detective, I’m headed to an early grave.”

 

***

 

_Inhale._

_Rubbing alcohol._

_Iron._

_Listen._

 

_Heart monitor._

_Shallow breathing._

_Not dead._

_NOT dead._

_I’m not dead._

_That’s bloody brilliant!_

 

Evelyn peeled open her eyes and peered around the room without moving a muscle.

Her heart warmed as her gaze landed on the sandy-haired doctor curled up in the plastic waiting room chair and as she lowered her gaze, she found a mop of silver-tinged ebony curls face down on her mattress; one arm curled and supporting his head and the other extending long fingers that wrapped lovingly and loosely around her own.

She smiled and closed her eyes again thanking whatever deity there might be for her safety, even though she could feel the morphine wearing off in her chest.

She started a bit as the detective hummed in his sleep and his fingers gripped more securely on hers; her chest burning with affection as she smiled down at the sleeping man.

She swallowed through her dry mouth and found her voice, cracked and broken as it might be and hummed softly.

_“_ _Love never dies_ _…”_

The detective stirred at the sound, but didn’t raise his head so she gripped his fingers in hers.

“ _Love never falters…”_

He gripped back at her fingers and rubbed his face unconsciously against his sleeve before his head stilled and he raised it slowly, then all at once as he realized what was happening. Evelyn smiled as she met his gaze and a silent tear streamed down her face as she finished the lyric.

_“Once it has spoken, love is yours…”_

He exhaled into a smile and kissed her hand, shutting his eyes. As he removed his lips, he smiled again and his deep baritone reciprocated the tune.

_“Love never fades_ _. Love never alters.”_

As his voice slowly filled the air with Webber’s music, the doctor blinked himself awake and his eyes landed on the detective and his daughter staring at each other. Content with her wellbeing, he remained still, curious to watch the scene unfold.

Sherlock chewed on his lip, trying to contain his sentiments, and his eyes creased in an honest smile, and his cracked voice betraying his intentions.

_“Hearts may get broken_ _; love endures. Hearts may get broken; love endures.”_

He shook his head slowly and stood to his feet, wrapping his arms gently around his daughter and Evelyn gratefully swallowed the scent of tea and expensive shampoo from Sherlock’s fresh clothing. His palm rested on the back of her head, and pressed her into his chest, and she exhaled shakily into his fresh suit.

His hands trembled as much as his voice as he embraced her, “Oh, Evelyn.” He nuzzled his face into her recently hospital washed locks; the temporary color had somewhat been washed away, but brunette tinges left her normally shimmering golden hair with a dirty tinge. “My dearest, dearest little lark, how could you be so _daft_?”

His voice cracked at the end of his sentence and she smiled into his chest, the silk of his shirt smooth and cool on her flushed cheek.

“I wasn’t being daft, Dad,” she mumbled into the fabric as her cheek rubbed against the detective. “It was the most logical thing I've ever done.” She pulled back to glance at his stunning eyes as she spoke, “Dad, don’t tell me to regret taking that bullet because I won’t. It saved your life and that’s all that matters to me because I love you.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he gripped her tightly to him as he bit his lip. She winced slightly from the pressure on her shoulder, but made no effort to remove herself from his embrace.

His eyes pinched tight as he pressed his cheek into her curls, “I love you, too, darling. So much more than you realize.”

John grimaced slightly as he chewed his lip. His chest burned with adoration and pride and he couldn’t contain himself any longer so he stretched and padded to the other side of Evelyn’s bed, running fingers through her hair.

She turned at the contact and her navy eyes watered at the sight of John’s earnest smile.

“Daddy!” She whispered through her cracked voice, lifting one arm to his chest as she couldn’t reach his neck at her angle.

John licked his lips and pressed a kiss to her forehead and she grinned at the touch, “Oh Evelyn, you’ve no idea how relieved we are to see that you’re all right.”

Evelyn half-sobbed, half-laughed as she weakly wrapped arms around both men and embraced them both against her frame, “I think it’s directly proportionate to how I feel about you. I was so worried that I was going to lose both of you, I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

John kissed her cheek before pulling away and placing a warm palm where his lips had just been. He met the younger version of his own eyes and smiled earnestly, “Evelyn, thanks to you, we’re all safe.” He furrowed his brow as he smiled, “Love, what you did was very, _very_ brave. _Regardless_ of your father’s sentiments, I am so very incredibly proud of you.”

She chewed on her lip and pressed her face into John’s chest as Sherlock flattened her curls with the palm of his hand as he hummed.

_“_ _Storm clouds may gather_ _and stars may collide, but I will love you until the end of time.”_

Evelyn sniffled at the _Moulin Rouge!_ song and pulled back to smile weakly at Sherlock.

“Come what may?” She asked quietly as her lip trembled.

He nodded minutely and kissed her cheek, his mouth lingering next to her ear as he whispered his concurrence,

 

“Come what may.”


	20. Riddle Me This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all of your patience between updates! It means a lot to see people still reading, and I promise- I'm hard at work on our little story here. Things always get worse before they get better; but conversely, they always get better before they get worse. Are you excited? I totally am!

Evelyn picked up her head from her book as she heard the frantic squeaking of converses against linoleum and she smiled at the panicked voice berating the security officer down the hall.

“ _I swear to God, if you don’t let me if I am going to make your life a right utter HELL! Don’t you tempt me you insufferable ogre! Her uncle is like some super-secret government man and he could have you deported before your shift ended! Let me through!”_

Sherlock cocked his head at the door as it swung open and John startled at its noise.

Evelyn’ chest released in relief as she saw Jeremy’s tall frame enter the room and she smiled warmly, “Jeremy, I’m so happy-”

Her words were cut off as a loud clap popped against her bruised cheek. Her face spun with the impact so she stretched her jaw and turned back slowly, her eyebrows hitting her hairline in surprise.

Sherlock’s body tensed and he prepared his body to pounce before he caught Evelyn’s gaze and she shook her head minutely, waving him off.

Jeremy stood trembling as he stared at the girl on the bed and their eyes met in a battle of wills. His hands curled into fists at his sides and his face pinched in a grimace before his brilliant emerald eyes welled with tears.

“Jeremy…” she mumbled, rubbing tenderly on her sore cheek.

Without preamble, Evelyn suddenly found herself being engulfed in long arms and a head of brunette hair in her mouth as Jeremy’s head fit in the crook of her neck. The bars on her bed were down and the young man sat precariously on the edge of the mattress as he sobbed ungainly tears into her hospital gown.

Evelyn gasped at the pressure on her shoulder and black dots flashed in her vision, but made no effort to move away and instead wrapped her arms around her shaking friend’s back, rubbing gently on his protruding shoulder blades.

His sobs made him nearly incomprehensible, but he mumbled into her skin against her ear, “How- how could you fucking _do_ that to me you arse? Evelyn, you made me watch you get _shot_!” He shuddered with an inconsolable sob and tightened his grip on her bruised body. She inhaled sharply and whimpered lightly, but allowed him to stay, “Why- why the fuck would you do that to me? I couldn’t- I couldn’t do _anything_ but watch and I saw your blood and oh my God, you fucking- I can’t- I don’t even! Oh my God, you’re such a bitch!”

She rubbed her cheek into his brunette hair and smiled sadly at her fathers’ shocked faces. “Shhh, Jeremy, I’m so sorry. I promise, I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

Black spots sparkled in her eyes as he hugged against her tighter and she whimpered quietly as he sobbed into her wounded shoulder, “‘ _You didn’t mean for that to happen’?_ Eevee, I had to _watch_! I’ve never been so fucking scared in my entire fucking life and oh my God, I was so fucking terrified and Jesus Christ, why did you do that to me you-!” He hiccupped and rubbed his nose into her neck, “I’m so glad you’re not dead. Oh my God, don’t you _ever_ fucking do that to me again or I swear to fucking God, I will resurrect you and kill you myself, you selfish arse!”

Evelyn chuckled and hummed contentedly, her fingers running through his straight hair, “You’re always so eloquent when you’re worried.”

She felt his mouth curve in a smile as he huffed against her neck, his arms gripping at her form securely, “Do that to me again and I’ll show you exactly how eloquent I can be.”

She chuckled and wound a bandaged hand in his brunette locks, holding him close to her. He hiccupped again and his entire body shuddered against her, jerking at her stitches, “Evelyn, you’re my best friend. Please, _please_ don’t make me watch you die.”

She removed her hand from his back and cupped his flushed cheek, pulling him away from her as she met his puffy eyes, “I won’t. I swear; I didn’t know that was going to happen. I am so very sorry, Jeremy. You’re my best friend, too; I’m sorry.”

Jeremy chewed his lip before he smiled, the lifting of his cheeks pushing more saline from his eyes, “We’ll have to invest in a bullet-proof vest then.” He scrubbed a hand at his eyes as he half-laughed, “I can’t imagine I’ll be able to keep you off the streets without driving you mad.”

Her eyes shined with affection as she chuckled back at him and shook her head, “No. No, I think you’re completely correct in that assumption.”

Air hissed through her teeth as the morphine began to wear off and she grimaced in discomfort, black and white spots flashing in her vision. Her head suddenly felt like cotton saturated in milk and her eyelids fluttered as she slumped slightly onto Jeremy’s shoulder with a soft groan.

She heard the echo of her heart monitor spiking and her name being called by her best friend, and she furrowed her brow at the tone of concern before finding herself unable to remove herself from his shoulder.

Her unfocused eyes were suddenly gazing at a blurry vision of John as she felt pressure at the back of her head as if she had been laid back. Her eyes closed until she began to feel a patting on her cheek; at first nigh non-existent, but steadily increasing in pressure as her mind started to clear the fog and she blinked her confusion away as her eyes focused on John’s concerned face only a foot from hers.

She stretched her jaw and rubbed a hand at her temple to soothe her now throbbing head, “What- what was that?”

John pressed against her chest lightly and brought his fingers back to her vision slightly tinged with crimson. Her heart monitor spiked again as her eyes widened in horror, before John’s other hand warmed against her cheek and he shook his head, “No, no, no love- don’t be so frightened. You just pulled on your wrapping, no worries. Your body just reacts to the pain that way. You’re all right, sweetheart.”

She felt her chest relax at the mollifying sound of his voice, and she nodded her head slowly, her right hand clenching and unclenching nervously.

Her eye wandered around the room and she smiled lightly at the tall boy shivering next to the detective. She noticed for the first time how similarly the two looked and she huffed a chuckle at the realization. Dark long locks; bright, brilliant eyes; and thin features that accentuated their tall and prominent forms mirrored each other as they stood silent at each other’s side. She lifted her eyes and found that John, too, had made the connection and was smiling at her choice of partner.

Sherlock cocked his head at John who in turn shook his head leaving the detective even huffier than before and Evelyn smirked at the sight of the flustered man.

She lowered her gaze and it finally rested on the form of the young man standing at the doorway of the room. He had his blonde head down, arms crossed, and his knee lifted as his foot rested against the wall.

“Michael,” she breathed, finding her voice suddenly torn away from her.

The young man lifted his head, his expression fixed in between concern, frustration, and something that Evelyn couldn’t entirely identify. She pulled up the corner of her lip in a smile and he mirrored the gesture half-heartedly.

She chewed on her cheek and looked at John who nodded and moved away from the side of her bed. She silently tilted her head at him and he slowly pushed himself from the wall, making his way to her bedside and brushing the bangs from her forehead affectionately.

“That was so stupid,” he mumbled, his voice cracking on his last word before he worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

She huffed a slight laugh and delicately grabbed his wrist before pulling it down to kiss his palm, “Not stupid.”

His bottom lip pouted before he worried his lips together and he blinked back obvious emotion before he huffed a smile, “There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity and you tap-danced on it.”

She rested his palm on her cheek and smiled warily, “Then not _entirely_ stupid.”

He shook his head slowly and bent forward, pressing his lips chastely to hers before pulling away and brushing her semi-blonde bangs from her forehead.

“No, you’re right. It was only _mostly_ stupid,” he agreed with a smile.

Evelyn pouted and gripped his hand in hers until her head began to swim and she felt herself slump forward slightly. She furrowed he brow as she forced herself to focus enough to smile back at her boyfriend and she groaned lightly with the effort.

John stepped forward and Michael politely retreated back to his post at the door. The doctor placed a palm gently on her forehead and smiled as she met his gaze.

“Get some rest, love.” He said softly, thumb tracing her eyebrow. “We’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Her eyes fluttered with fatigue and she nodded slowly, leaning her head back before the drone of deep male voices lulled her into a comfortable slumber.

 

***

 

“Can I help you?”

John leaned against the bedroom door frame as he spied on Evelyn picking through his closet, arms crossed over his chest and smirking.

The teenager jumped at the sound of his voice and turned sheepishly towards him with a jacket in her right hand.

“I was just curious,” she mumbled.

John crinkled his nose, “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows as he finally recognized the article of clothing, but before he could ask, Evelyn cut off his questions.

She raised the fatigue jacket with her good arm and flushed, “Do you think you could…?”

John thinned his lips and smiled, nodding as he pushed himself from the doorframe and ambled towards her.

April had come and gone and Evelyn’s wounds had all-but healed in its wake. Bruises had yellowed and vanished and cuts against her skin has become pale shadows of memories. Her shoulder, however, had maintained a brilliant spider web scar on her pale skin; in her mind, a permanent reminder of exactly how potent a motivator love could be.

The wound itself however had caused a slight bit of nerve damage in her muscles and lead to her experiencing an incredible amount of discomfort anytime she moved her arm more than necessary. Thus, she was incredibly happy summer was on its way as pulling on jackets was a feat upon itself.

John plucked the fatigue jacket that he had been allowed to take home from her hands and held it out, fanning the opening so that she merely had to place her arms backwards in order to pull it on.

She winced as she stretched her left arm back, and John chewed his lip as he flattened the shoulder pads down on her broad shoulders.

She turned back around to face him and jerked the bottom of the jacket down, fastening and smoothing it down flat before smiling up at him.

“What was it like being in the Army?” She asked, tilting her head towards him.

He chewed on his lip and shrugged; meeting her eye. “Well, it’s hard to explain, love. It gave me a purpose: helping people. It’s always been something I was good at. But it was _different_. I lost a lot of good men out there, and a lot of the ones we brought home were broken.” He shrugged sadly, “Kind of like me, I guess.”

Evelyn cocked her head and shifted her lips into a sympathetic frown, “What do you mean you were ‘broken’?”

He smiled shyly at the thought and his navy eyes met their younger counterparts, “When I got shot and invalided home, I didn’t have that same purpose. I just kind of _existed_.” He gestured his head towards the sitting room, “At least until I met that old loon.”

Sherlock’s petulant voice echoed through the hall, “John, I am not a ‘loon’. If you are going to insult me, at least do it eloquently and out of earshot.”

Evelyn laughed lightly and raised her arms out as far she could; changing the topic, “So how do I look?”

John tilted his head as he took in the sight.

Evelyn’s fit frame filled out most of it, and ironically enough, besides the length of the arms, it could have been cut for her. She turned her arm and inspected the patches with her free hand and looked back at her father curiously. John tucked a lock of golden hair behind her ear and smiled; crow’s feet deepening near his eyes as he creased them, “You look beautiful, love.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and crinkled her nose, her hands waving to emphasize her point, “Who cares about beautiful, Daddy? Do I look like I would fit in?”

Taken aback, John cocked his head in question, “Fit in? You mean fit in the military? Why would you want to do that?”

Evelyn shrugged and her eyes pinched in slight discomfort, “Oh, I don’t know. You have to be a specific kind of person to be in the military.” She flushed as she looked down at the ground, “You have to be brave and smart and tough and-”

“Then yes; you would fit right in, love,” he interrupted, placing a warm hand on her cheek.

She smiled and leaned forward to kiss his cheek before flitting out of her fathers’ room and into the living area, leaving John standing in her wake.

Suddenly realization dawned on him and he followed her out of the bedroom and into the living area, wagging his finger, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but _no_ , you are not allowed to join the force and _no_ , you are not allowed to take on a case that requires you to disguise yourself as a soldier.”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and raised an eyebrow at his daughter as he turned toward where she was standing in his composition window.

She groaned and rolled her head back, golden curls cascading over her shoulders, “Oh come on, Daddy! Why would I want to join the force?”

John furrowed his brow and leaned on his hip, “You don’t, which means that you want my fatigues for a disguise and you are _not_ going to do so.”

Sherlock sat silent and narrowed his eyes between the two, following the argument with his eyes.

“You know the more you tell me _not_ to do something, the more I want to do it,” she huffed indignantly as she crossed her arms over her chest.

John raked a hand through his graying hair and puffed out his cheeks, “Evelyn Mary Watson, you _just_ finished your Physical Therapy from being _shot_.” He repeated the word with emphasis to prove his point, “ _SHOT_ , Evelyn. Don’t you think it’s a _little_ early to start throwing your life back on the line again?”

Evelyn mimicked her father’s puffed cheeks, “Daddy, I’m not made of china. I’m healed! Look at me!”

John quirked his eyebrow and walked towards her forebodingly. He raised a hand and firmly pressed his thumb directly in her gun wound. Her eyes blew open and she gasped, black spots sparkling in her vision and air seething through her teeth as her knees buckled beneath her and she fell from his grasp.

She growled at him as her right hand shot to her shoulder and she cradled her arm against her as her eyes welled and she hummed in discomfort.

John kneeled down and grimaced as he looked down at her, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you, Evelyn, but look what just happened.” He gestured to her shoulder with his right hand, his voice soft and apologetic, “I barely even pressed and you’re out for the count. Imagine if you pissed some Army bloke off and they decided to take it out on you. You’re not ready for so much excitement yet.”

His right hand pulled at his collar until he exposed his identical scar, “You act like I don’t know what you’re going through, but I do. Please, Evelyn, I’m just trying to keep you _safe_.”

Her face flushed red as her voice raised, “I don’t _need_ your help; I can take care of myself!”

John shook his head and sighed, waving his hand dramatically, “Why are you being so ornery? If you hurt yourself, it’s just going to take twice as long to heal all the way.” He raised one hand and plucked out one finer per situation “Wouldn’t you rather be patient for now and be at your full capacity in another month, or do you want to aggravate it until it never heals all the way?”

“I’m bored!” She whined, rubbing a hand at her face. “I can’t stand sitting in this flat all day long!”

John shrugged and chewed on his cheek, “Evelyn, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be stuck here anymore than you do, but you _need_ to think about your body. Give it _time._ You have school and your friends; why can’t you spend more time with them?”

She groaned and sat back on against the window frame, “I can’t spend every waking moment with them; they have their own lives, you know. I need something to keep my mind occupied!”

John hummed irritably and turned his head to catch his husband’s eye. As soon as he did, John nodded pointedly towards their daughter as if to ask for back-up.

The detective groaned and turned in his seat, “You know what your father is saying is accurate, Evelyn. He is a doctor, if you recall correctly.”

Evelyn narrowed her navy eyes at him and pursed her lips, “You’re not helping, you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, steepling his fingers under his chin as he thought.

A shrill ping pierced through the air and the detective plucked his phone from his housecoat pocket, sliding it open and placing it against his ear.

“Yes?”

Evelyn heard her Uncle Lestrade’s gruff voice echo from Sherlock’s mobile.

Suddenly the detective smiled, and he narrowed his eyes in delight, “Don’t touch anything. We’ll be there in twenty minutes; text me the address.”

Elegant fingers slid the phone conversation to an end and he spun on his chair towards the two Watsons on the floor.

“Get dressed,” he smiled wryly, brilliant eyes sparkling mischievously, “ _both_ of you.”

Evelyn squeaked enthusiastically and her face lifted and beamed with surprised excitement, completely contrasting her father’s sour grimace, “Sherlock, you want to bring her? What kind of case is it?”

The detective leapt from his seat and numbly bounded to his family, grabbing John’s hands and pulling him up with vigor, “An apparent suicide. No gore and as far as I can tell, no imminent danger for her, I promise. But if Evelyn,” at that point he lowered his gaze to the girl still on the floor, “wants to become a detective, I think it’s about time for her first closed-room case.”

A high pitched squeal erupted in the room and golden hair bounded past the two men and up the stairs, “I’ll only be a minute- don’t leave without me!”

John’s brow furrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest, “Sherlock, we should talk about that kind of stuff before you decide to include her. She’s still a child!”

Sherlock waved him off dismissively as he walked towards their room, “She’ll be no less a child in three months than she is right now. Wisdom is gained by experience, not age, love.”

John frowned and whined like a petulant child, “She’s seventeen! She shouldn’t be looking at dead bodies!”

Sherlock poked his head back out of the room and frowned, “Oh for God’s sakes, John! She’s killed a man, been shot, and she creeps into our room at night to look at cases when she thinks we’re not looking.” He cocked an eyebrow, “Are you _seriously_ under the impression that she has no concept of death?”

John thinned his lips at Sherlock’s logic and groaned as he walking into the room, “ _Fine,_ but the _moment_ I think she’s subconsciously uncomfortable, I’m taking her home.”

Sherlock ruffled his curls before straightening his black suit jacket over his Byzantium silk shirt smirking, “It’s not me that you’ll have to argue about that with.”

John lifted his gaze to the ceiling as he heard Evelyn padding around frantically upstairs.

“She _is_ rather excited, isn’t she?”

Sherlock surprised him by wrapping long arms around his chest and resting his mouth near John’s ear. His velvet voice reverberated through John’s chest as heat pooled in his belly, “I’d imagine that she is. She won’t have to spend any money on her own cab this time.”

John hummed contently against his husband’s chest until realization dawned on him and he spun around in Sherlock’s arms, “‘This time’? You- you mean she’s been following us to cases and you _knew_ about it?”

Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to John’s lips and waved flippantly before retreating back into the sitting area, “If you’re assuming that she and I have a secret pact allowing her to follow us, I assure you that is not the case. She believes me as ignorant as you.”

John stood gaping before he groaned and shook his head mumbling and pulling a clean jumper from his collection, “Damn detectives.”

 

***

 

“Would you sit _still_?”

John pressed his hands on Evelyn’s knees from where she sat across from them in the cab. They continued to jiggle underneath his palms and he sighed, exasperated.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m just excited!” She stated with more enthusiasm than John thought possible.

“Oh really? I couldn’t tell!” He mumbled back snarkily, rolling his navy blue eyes at her.

Sherlock stifled a snort and thinned his lips at the window, feeling John’s glare on the side of his neck.

True to Sherlock’s word, within the half-hour, the Baker Street family found themselves at a residential complex surrounded by NSY cars.

Evelyn’s chest bubbled and she could hardly contain her eagerness before Sherlock rested a large warm palm on her shoulder, causing her to turn to face him.

His face was uncharacteristically soft and his eyes creased in a smile at her.

“Relax, little bird.” He murmured, “They think _I_ get too excited about dead bodies. If anyone sees you like this, you’ll be riding home in a straightjacket.”

Immediately, Evelyn’s body stilled and Sherlock held in a laugh at her mortified expression.

“ _They’re coming to take me away, ha ha! They’re coming to take me away!”_ He purred lightly, crinkling his nose as she growled at him.

He then gracefully slid out of the cab behind John and held a hand out for Evelyn to do the same.

Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat. _Don’t panic, you’ve been to a hundred crime scenes. But you actually get to HELP on this one! Christ, this is so exciting! Relax! Alright, into battle._

She exhaled deeply and took her father’s hand, allowing him to pull her from the cab.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was speaking to John before his gaze fell on the golden locks that poured from behind Sherlock’s tall form. His jaw dropped and he shook his head, holding his hand out in flat rejection, “No. Absolutely not, Sherlock. She’s a child!”

Sherlock sauntered up to him and managed a curt smile, “Yes, and she’s already exponentially more competent than your entire team.”

Lestrade huffed indignantly as he crossed his arms over his chest, “I can’t let a child into a crime scene!”

Evelyn stood firm next to the dark-haired detective, but he could feel her resolve faltering at the D.I.’s refusal. Without preamble, he held out his right hand, “A bet then.”

Both John and Lestrade turned at him and grimaced in obvious confusion.

Sherlock nodded towards his daughter and gestured his hand at Lestrade again, “I wager that Evelyn will be able to solve the case before the hour is up, completely without any help; including any from John or myself.”

Evelyn’s eyes blew wide at Sherlock’s proposition and he winked at her slightly.

_Oh my God,_ she thought. _Oh my God, this is actually happening. I don’t think I could love you more, Dad._

She flushed as she pinched her cheeks against her eyes; her hands wringing as she tried to keep her enthusiasm at bay.

Lestrade considered it and raked a hand through his hair, “What’s the ante then?”

Sherlock winced at the thought, but held his hand firmly in the air that separated them, “If Evelyn cannot solve the case within the hour, I will wear that blasted hat to every crime scene you call us to for the rest of the year and I will not rebuke any insult related to it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at John’s snort and he smiled menacingly towards the D.I., “And if I win, Evelyn can come to cases as long as she’s with either John or I.”

“Sherlock,” John mumbled anxiously, eyes jumping back and forth between his husband and his daughter.

“With the exception of cases John does not want her attending,” Sherlock amended reluctantly with a flippant wave of his hand.

Lestrade pondered it and seemed to be swimming through molasses in his mind before the air boomed around them as he laughed heartily and clapped his hand firmly against Sherlock’s, shaking it with vigor, “You having to wear that hat _and_ stay silent about it? I’d pay good money to see that! You’re on!”

“Really?!” Evelyn squealed, earning her three surprised sets of eyes pointed directly at her. She flushed again and shoved her hands in her pockets, “I mean, erm, right. Let’s go, then, shall we?”

Sherlock grinned, raising his hand to allow her to pass and followed her into the complex.

John caught up with a couple of extra-long strides and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. His eyes dark with concern and his voice soft, yet stern. “Are you sure about this, Sherlock? She already has nightmares.”

Sherlock bent down and murmured into his ear, “If I feel at any moment that she is under more emotional stress than is acceptable, I will tell her one key piece of information that will solve the case for her, thus allowing her to still solve it on her own and we’ll take her home.” He turned his face and brilliant cerulean eyes met John’s and softened with honest sentiment. “Does that sound adequate to you?”

John’s furrowed brow creased as he glanced over at his daughter waiting for the lift and he nodded shortly, “Yeah, alright.”

Sherlock straightened himself and smiled at his husband, “Besides, don’t be so anxious; I reserved you a veto-clause in future cases and she agreed.”

John sniffed and smiled while rolling his eyes, “Yeah, thanks. Let’s see how well _that_ works out.”

Sherlock shot him a sideways glance and a sly smile.

Evelyn waved them forward and the three along with the D.I. clamored into the lift, heading to the 7th floor.

“Kevin Davis, thirty-seven, works in IT at the local news station, lived in room seven-twenty-seven,” Lestrade explained as they exited the lift and walked down the hall. “No significant other, no close family; he was found by the apartment cleaning lady.”

Evelyn quirked her head, “Did she cut him down?”

Lestrade startled at her voice and then shook it away, “Erm, yes. She performed CPR on him, but he was hours gone before she found him.”

_Post-mortem bruises on chest and backside should be visible then,_ she mentally noted.

Lestrade pulled up the crime scene tape and allowed the Baker Street family to enter in.

Much to their chagrin, a familiar face greeted them.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Anderson piped up, pinching his nose at the sight of the teenager. “You’re letting him corrupt a child at a _real_ crime scene?”

Evelyn bristled and forgot to hold her tongue. “You must be Anderson,” she said flatly, nostril pulled up in disgust as she sized him up with a slight gaze of her eyes. “Your incompetence proceeds you.”

Mortified, John grabbed her arm and began to admonish her quietly as Sherlock grinned gleefully at her insult.

Anderson huffed indignantly at her words but was preemptively silenced by a shake of Lestrade’s head. The D.I. gently grabbed Evelyn by her shoulders and looked directly in her navy eyes, “Do you promise that you will leave this crime scene the second you feel uncomfortable?”

Evelyn smiled and shook her head fervently, “Yes, Uncle Greg, I promise.”

Lestrade nodded sternly and turned back to the crime scene investigators, waving his hand, “Alright, everyone out!” He hollered, “Come back in the hour!”

Groans of confusion and sighs of relief rang through the room until only the three men and teenage girl remained.

Sherlock pressed a warm hand against her shoulder blade, pushing her into the crime scene and nodded reassuringly as she turned towards him, “Well, go on, little bird.”

She smiled shyly at him and turned back to John, whose navy eyes creased in an earnest smile as he waved a hand forward, “Show us what you’ve got, Eevee.”

She straightened her back and inhaled deeply, pinching her eyes closed before taking a step forward. As her foot touched the ground again, her eyes opened and she took in every bit of information that she could; her mind’s eye writing words over the images she saw and categorizing them as she saw fit.

_Roof: 4 meters from ground._

_Rope: About 3.5 meters long._

She looked around and the lack of furniture was eerie. The scene was in the middle of the flat, directly under the ceiling fan, yet there were no personal fixtures to speak of.

_Not even a chair to kick out from underneath him; how did he get up there then?_

She looked over the body. _Five feet, ten inches. Not nearly tall enough to tie something on the ceiling without help._

“So he was standing on something and it disappeared, yet there was no one to take it. At least we assume so, because of the door being locked from the inside and the barred windows,” she mumbled to herself as she paced around the flat.

She closed her eyes and pushed open the door to her mind palace. Her library had been in tatters right after she woke up from her gun shot, but throughout the time between then and there, she had rebuilt it to its previous grandeur.

She paced down the hall until she found a book on physics. She peeled open the book and turned through the pages. “It takes around sixteen PSI to break someone’s neck, but wait.”

She opened her eyes and looked back at the body, “His neck is fully intact. That means he didn’t jerk and fall, it was gradual or he was unconscious and was hoisted up there so that he wouldn’t fight, but as we have established, no one was in the room besides him.”

Sherlock’s voice broke into her reverie, “Go on.”

Lestrade turned, coughing pointedly and Sherlock raised his eyebrows defiantly, “Encouragement does not constitute aid.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and looked around the room again. Surely there were no marks of another person or of a struggle, so suicide was evident. _But how?_

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. She shut her eyes and her mind’s eyes recreated the scene.

She built and empty room, and raised a hand, lifting the dead man’s body from the ground, and tying it to the roof.

“Too high to jump into the noose,” she mumbled, watching the scene play out and fail miserably in her head.

“Not enough rope to pull himself up.” Her imagination’s dummy struggled to reach a rope that wouldn’t come.

“The rope wasn’t wrapped around the blades, only tied to the anchor.”

She pinched her eyes tight as she pressed her hands against her temples, “No furniture, so it _had_ to be something gradual; progressively disappearing furniture.”

She hummed as the cogs in her mind worked in overtime until the answer sprung out and white letters floated in her vision.

Evelyn jerked her head up and smiled gleefully at Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask her deductions when she turned to Lestrade and asked, “Did the cleaning lady complain about being dizzy?”

“Ah ha!” Sherlock yelled triumphantly, shocking everyone in the room. He strode over the distance and wrapped his daughter in a crushing hug, completely forgetting about her wound. “My dear Evelyn, you’ve got it!” He pulled back, hands still gripping Evelyn’s upper arms as he smiled manically and kissed her cheek.

Lestrade waved a hand and rubbed his temple, “Whoa, whoa, what now? I didn’t hear a cause of death besides the obvious.”

Sherlock spun around, grinning and enthusiastically thrust Evelyn in Lestrade’s direction, “Go on; tell him what you know.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at John who in turn shrugged his lack of understanding at him.

Evelyn shook her head free of the spots that had sparkled in her vision from Sherlock’s embrace and beamed; her heart fluttered as she ran past the three men and into the hall, her voice shrill and commanding, “Anderson! Anderson, come back here, please!”

She bounded back into the room, standing next to the dead body lying on the floor as both John and Lestrade begged for explanation with their expressions.

Evelyn bounced on her heels enthusiastically as she waved a hand at them, “Just wait, one second! I’ll explain everything when Anderson gets in here!”

Slowly, but surely, the Crime Scene Investigator waltzed back into the room and sneered at the young woman, “Surely you have better things to do than mimic a freak, don’t you?”

Unperturbed, Evelyn crossed her arms and smiled, “How do you think Mr. Davis died, Anderson?”

The aging CSI crossed his arms similarly and cocked an irritated eyebrow, “Are you blind, too? He hung hims-”

“Wrong!” She yelled out eagerly, interrupting him almost too loudly. She collected herself and waved her hand towards the body, “Mr. Davis wasn’t asphyxiated.” She grinned and narrowed her eyes towards Sherlock, “He was _poisoned_.”

Anderson huffed indignantly and then laughed humorlessly, “Are you serious? He was found _hanging_. He’s got bruises around his neck from the rope!”

Evelyn groaned and ran a hand through her hair, “I was obviously misinformed about the impressiveness of your lack of observational skills.” She jerked a hand dramatically towards the corpse, wincing slightly as she jerked her shoulder, “He’s the wrong _color_ for God’s sakes!”

She leaned down towards the body and lifted an eyelid, exposing glazed-over brown pupils and white sclera. “Look! There aren’t any petechiae around his eyes! If he had been strangled, he would have broken the blood vessels in his eyes from the effort. Yes, he hung and yes, he was still alive when he wrapped the noose too tightly around his neck, but the rope _didn’t_ cause his death!”

She pointed at the ligature marks on his neck, “Look at these bruises. How many lines do you see?”

Anderson stood silent until Evelyn raised her eyebrows as if asking for an answer. “One,” he spat.

She nodded in agreement, “Precisely. _One._ He didn’t struggle.” She jumped up and ran to Sherlock. Much to his surprise, she slid his famous scarf from around his neck and wrapped it around hers, mimicking a noose. “Even if you try to kill yourself and you _want_ to die,” she tightened the cloth against her neck with her right hand as she pulled it behind her head, “your body _doesn’t_ and it will fight back if you’re conscious. If he had been alive and awake when the noose pulled at his skin, he would have convulsed in an attempt to free his neck. There would have been a multitude of lines from where the rope would have cut and dug into his skin.”

Lestrade nodded in agreement but waved his hand, “Alright, I get that, but why do you say he was poisoned? There’s nothing in his mouth, no pinpricks, no vomit, nothing that leads me to assume poison.”

Evelyn released the noose and tied the scarf around her neck for ease and leaned back on her heels, smiling, “Uncle Greg, you see what you want to see! Being poisoned doesn’t always mean you’ve ingested something. Look at the man’s skin.” She pointed to the dead man’s cheeks. “What color is he?”

The D.I. shrugged, “I guess he’s a little pink. What of it?”

“‘ _What of it?’_ ” She repeated incredulously. “Uncle Greg, it’s the turning point of this case! Asphyxiation victims have blue tinges from a lack of oxygen in their blood. The question is, then: why does this man have pink cheeks?”

She posed the question for everyone to answer, but only one set of burning blue eyes gave her any recognition of comprehension.

The young woman stood and walked over to John, firmly grabbing his upper arms as she questioned him sternly, “Daddy, what causes a man to be pink after he dies? It’s a kind of poisoning, but not an ingested one. It’s also something that could gradually decrease over time and would leave no trace _except what was in the air._ ” She finished the sentence with emphasis, hoping her point was driven home.

The doctor looked down as he tried to collect his thoughts and he pulled an arm free of her grip to rub the back of his neck. Chewing his lip, he looked up to the roof and chuckled as he finally realized what she meant.

He turned to Lestrade and smirked, “You never did answer her question, Greg. Did the cleaning lady complain of vertigo?”

Lestrade frowned and shrugged, “Well, yes, but she was a middle-aged woman, she was in shock. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Hypercapnia!” Evelyn squealed, turning towards her flabbergasted uncle. “Dry ice is just solid Carbon Dioxide. He stood on a block of it, wrapped the noose around his neck and waited for it to sublimate. As it did so, he inhaled the massive amount of Carbon Dioxide, thus _poisoning_ himself with it. He passed out as it poisoned his blood and he hung there until the dry ice sublimated completely! It’s genius!”

“What does that have anything to do with the cleaning lady?” Anderson piped in nastily, grinding his teeth.

Evelyn crinkled her nose and waved through the flat, “There’s no power here. Nothing’s turned on. Thus, there’s no air conditioning; nothing to keep a constant influx of new air. When she opened the door and found him, she rushed in and inhaled the stagnant, Carbon Dioxide-saturated air and cut him down. Obviously, since she left the door open and fresh air began to permeate into the flat, she wasn’t harmed, but she would have begun to feel dizzy from the exposure she _had_ gotten. It’s really quite simple.”

John turned to see Sherlock’s chest puffed out like a proud purple peacock, grinning incessantly at his daughter’s triumph and the doctor laughed at the sight.

Evelyn smiled politely and gestured towards the body, “If you do blood tests, you’ll find his Carbon Dioxide levels are through the roof. He died of Hypercapnia, and there was no foul play. He committed suicide, but in a more elegant way than most.”

Sherlock’s high cheekbones pinched against his cheeks as he smiled and beamed in his pride, “Beautiful work, Evelyn; absolutely spectacular.”

Anderson growled and retreated from the room and Sherlock turned to Lestrade, quirking his head slightly to the side, “Twenty minutes, Lestrade. I do believe that I have won this bet.”

The aging D.I. puffed out his cheeks and smiled at the beaming young girl, “Dammit, I was really looking forward to those pictures, Sherlock.” He stepped forward and ruffled Evelyn’s hair on the top of her head, “Good work, sweetheart. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”

The young woman squeaked with pleasure and wrapped her arms tightly around the D.I., nearly suffocating him until he hugged her back.

He turned his head and whispered in her ear, “If you get nightmares about this, call me, okay? Any time of night; promise me?”

Evelyn winced as she felt the pressure of her hug on her shoulder, but nodded her head and mumbled, “Promise.”

She pulled away from him and walked towards her fathers, grabbing them both by the hand and pulling them out of the doorway and into the hall, “Come on, I need to tell Jeremy _all_ about this!”

John smirked at Sherlock as he allowed the young woman to drag them across the hallway and towards the lift, “You’ve created a monster.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement and Evelyn turned to them both before they reached the lift, grinning.

“Detective Evelyn Watson,” she stated proudly, looking to the ceiling as if searching for inspiration.

 

“I like the sound of that.”


	21. Smoky Hearts

“Is this what you call ‘fun’, Dad?”

Evelyn whispered as she wrapped her arms tighter around her torso, pulled her knees tightly to her chest and leaned back against the tree trunk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and peered around the bushes they concealed themselves with, silently watching their suspect, “For as much as your father scolds you, your impatience is astounding.”

Evelyn groaned internally as she stood up and peered around the brush with him, “We’ve been following this guy for _hours_. When are we going to do something exciting?”

The detective lolled his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at her, “Remind me not to take you on cases when your father’s not around. You’re practically insufferable.”

Evelyn smirked and tilted her head, “I love you, too, Dad.”

He smiled thinly at her and turned his attention back to the scene that was unfolding before them.

Two men were sitting in a car smoking cigarettes as they waited for their delivery. If Sherlock was to be correct, “ _Le Coeur de Fumée_ ”, in English, “The Heart of Smoke”, was to be transferred here and he and his daughter would have to ( _unfortunately)_ wait patiently for the transaction to occur.

Legend had it that the magma, after it had consumed the historic city of Pompeii, had slid into the ocean; the cool of the water chilling and molding the magma into beautiful shapes and giving it a clean, glossy finish. In the city of Pompeii, a highbrow gentleman had acquired a brilliant ruby, approximately 100-carats large and in the chaos of his city’s destruction, lost it to the pulsing magma that sucked it into the ocean.

Nearly two millennia later, an archaeologist by the name of Jacques Montreat had discovered the beautiful glossy volcanic rock and decided to take it home as a gift to his wife, not knowing the rare gem he had unearthed encased in the cooled pumice.

After discovering the infidelity of his wife several months later, Montreat stuck the piece of volcanic rock to the ground, knowing the pumice would shatter with the force. Much to his surprise, however, after he cleaned away the rubbish, a brilliant ruby shone at him from the floor. The red gem had been tattooed from the sheer intensity of the molten lava; smoky spirals and swirls covering its surface, ghosting through the precious stone.

Since then, the stone had passed hands and continents, finding itself worth over twenty million quid by the time it was stolen from Lady Abernathy on her yearly holiday to London and Sherlock Holmes had been called on the case.

Aforementioned detective rubbed his fingers against his palm as he watched a non-descript car slide into view. He tensed as he watched another man step lightly from the car and approach their suspects.

He narrowed his eyes and tapped his daughter on the elbow, directing her attention.

Surely enough, the man pulled a bundle from his coat pocket, presenting it to their objects of attention before scuttling away back into his car and back down the empty country street. The original car engine was restarted and the driver pulled away, leaving a single man standing before an abandoned Victorian home, tucking something into his coat pockets.

“Now to find out what our friend here is going to do with it,” he murmured to his daughter gesturing to the man entering the house with a nod of his head.

The young woman grinned and nodded in agreement, grabbing his hand before stepping from around the cover of trees. With a few long strides, the detective found himself in front of her and pulling her slightly with his larger gait.

A few moments later, the pair found themselves creeping around the entrance as Sherlock inspected for security cameras or hidden surprises or traps.

Finding none that seemed too difficult to avoid, he set about picking the lock of the front door, listening intently as he fiddled with the small tools.

“You’d make a terrifying criminal, Dad,” Evelyn whispered as she leaned against the rough brick; a cool summer breeze twirling her hair in front of her face.

Sherlock smirked and lifted a crooked eyebrow at her, “You’ve no idea.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened marginally at her father’s confession and she cleared her throat nervously. A few clicks later and the door swung open, allowing them inside.

Sherlock slid the door closed behind them with a nigh silent _click_ and grabbed Evelyn’s elbow gently, “Evelyn, I need you to stay close to me, alright? I don’t want to lose you or have you getting hurt. If that happens, your father won’t allow you to accompany me on cases anymore, understand?”

She held out her pinky finger and smiled, “I understand. I promise I’ll stay close.”

Sherlock smiled softly and took her pinky in his; his longer finger curling all the way around hers as the pact was made. “The game is on, love.”

She grinned back and followed the lanky detective down the hall, keeping herself close behind him and flush against the wall.

A creak in the far end of the corridor caused the detective to thrust a hand behind him and press Evelyn to the wall, completely hiding her from the view of whoever they may encounter. Another beat of silence, and Sherlock was satisfied that there were no unwelcomed visitors to be greeted by and he began to move forward again, following the hallway into where he deduced the main foyer of the house.

“Where are we going, Dad?” Evelyn whispered, rolling her feet as to make as little noise against the floor as possible.

“Patience!” He hissed, peering around a corner before turning back to her. “We need to find out for sure if that is the ‘ _Le Coeur de Fumée_ ’ before we call Lestrade or we’ll never hear the end of his intolerable ranting if we’re mistaken.”

Evelyn stilled and crinkled her nose as if she had just inhaled something foul, “You’re Sherlock Holmes; you’re _never_ ‘mistaken’.”

The detective flushed and furrowed his brow at her, his pale silver eyes darting around her face before softening around the edges and settling on the navy blue ones before him.

“I do believe that the name ‘Watson’ is synonymous with the term ‘faithful’ in every dictionary known to man.”

Evelyn huffed as she crossed her arms, “I may not have the name, but I’m just as much a Holmes as I am a Watson, thank you very much.”

Sherlock sniffed out a kind smile and conceded the fact, “Yes, little bird, I believe that you are.”

He stood straight again and peered into the next hallway before gripping her hand and pulling her along with him. Into the hallway and up a single flight of stairs Sherlock lead them until they found themselves on a balcony overlooking, not the foyer, but an old, cobwebbed ballroom.

Evelyn crouched against the carpeting of and Sherlock did the same. The two detectives leaned forward and watched the scene on the floor.

The same man they had followed into the house walked into the opened room loudly and about ten meters underneath them. His heavy gait reverberated against the wooden floor and his shining bald head shimmered with sweat from his obvious exertion through the house.

“Oi! Can we get this show on the road? I’ve got an early retirement in Barcelona I’m keen to get a move on with!” His thick northern accent echoed through the empty room as his overweight frame huffed with his effort.

Another man, shorter and covered with scruffy graying brunette hair, shifting through a set of boxes turned at the noise and frowned, “Hey, shut up, will you? Let’s wait until we get _out_ to celebrate, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright, now come on!” he demanded, lifting the bundle in his hands. “Wanna peek?”

The brunette man suddenly smiled wryly and padded over to his counterpart, peeling the cloth away from the precious stone and grinning with gaped-teeth at its shimmering.

Evelyn gasped as her eyes fell on the gem and she could see why people would pay a pretty penny to own such a piece of natural beauty.

As his daughter gawked, Sherlock plucked his phone from his pocket and slid open a new message.

 

To: Lestrade

_Paul Montgomery and Stanley Jameson are your culprits. Abandoned Victorian home on Crawfordville three km south of the corner of Mixon and St. Mary’s. –SH_

Satisfied with his charge, Sherlock stood and held out a hand to Evelyn, pulling her up to stand alongside him, “They should be here within the quarter-hour, as long as Lestrade heeded my words to stay around this area.”

Evelyn scowled as she crossed her arms on her chest, “Really? That’s it? We didn’t even get to chase anyone!”

The detective opened his mouth to chide her before a crack suddenly rang out through the room and the two detectives shrunk to their knees, Sherlock patting his daughter down for any signs of a wound.

Evelyn squeaked at the noise and as Sherlock began to pat her down, she gripped his wrist and pulled him into the hallway they had just emerged from.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” She teased as she turned the corner, Sherlock trailing not very far behind, rolling his eyes.

Muffled echoes of the two men hollering filled the air, but the detective knew that there was no possible way for them to be able to find them with their limited amount of time. Surprisingly, he heard another set of footsteps running down an adjacent hall and he pressed Evelyn’s body against the wall with his long arm.

_Who else is here?_ He questioned himself as he peered through the hall.

A bullet pierced the atrocious wallpaper near Sherlock’s head and he ducked minutely, covering Evelyn with his greatcoat before ushering her in front of him and hissing, “Go, go!”

The golden-haired girl ran down the halls, her trainers making little noise as they pounded against the wooden floors until she found herself at a dead end and Sherlock nearly knocked her over in his momentum.

“Where do we go?” She muttered, out of breath as Sherlock’s gaze bounced in every direction, searching for a way out.

He thinned his lips as his curls bounced frantically around him before he pointed aggressively towards a string hanging from the roof farther along the hallway, “Come on!”

They retraced their steps a few meters and found themselves under it. Sherlock jumped, his fingers just barely reaching the string before his weight pulled it down. Evelyn’s jaw dropped as a section of the roof wall pulled along with the thin rope, a folded up ladder making its way down towards them.

Sherlock flipped the ladder down and pressed Evelyn’s shoulder blades towards it. She needed no more invitation before she found herself climbing straight up into an unknown part of the house.

Evelyn pulled herself into what she deemed the attic and pulled herself away from the opening to allow Sherlock full access to the floor around it. The detective pulled himself into the musty room, pulling the ladder up along with him. With a mighty heave, he pulled the door shut and made sure to catch the string on their side of the door as to not alert anyone below them of their hiding spot.

Evelyn huffed with the effort of their run, squatting as she searched the attic with her eyes for anything that could be used as a weapon until she suddenly felt a strange warmth over her as the detective slid beside her and covered her body with his dark coat, pressing her against him.

Concerned with the ragged breathing coming from behind her, she changed a glance at the detective who shook his head and pulled his jaw next to her ear, “Shhh, I’m fine… Be quiet.”

She nodded in compliance and leaned back against him as she listened with all of her might.

Her heart began to patter with excitement as frantic footsteps skidded into the hallway and stopped abruptly when their owner found himself alone in the corridor.

“Dammit!” They heard him holler into the empty hallway.

_American, how interesting_ … Sherlock surmised as he listened to the man below them pace in frustration.

Suddenly, the detective clapped a hand over Evelyn’s mouth as she barely-less-than-silently yelped as a stray bullet shot through the floor and lodged itself in the ancient abandoned dresser beside them.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the hole in the floor, gripping Evelyn to his chest like a vice until his strained ears heard the heavy footfalls exit down the opposite side of the walkway.

As soon as he was sure the perpetrator was out of earshot, Sherlock exhaled the deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in and it swirled Evelyn’s golden locks before him.

He retracted himself from around Evelyn’s small frame and stood up, shaking the dust away from his coat that he had accumulated from sitting in the attic.

“Well, he certainly could have been a bit more diplomatic, don’t you think?” He muttered as he jerked his hand through his curls, ridding them of cobwebs and God knew what worse.

Evelyn stood shakily and smirked, waving her hand nonchalantly, “Oh, I don’t know! He seemed like a rather cheery bloke to me!”

The detective sniffed a short laugh and turned his wrist to check the time.

“The Yard should be arriving shortly,” he said plainly, bending down to his knees and pressing his ear to the floor to listen for any more intruders. “If we’re careful we can probably get you out of here relatively unscathed.” He eyed Evelyn meaningfully, repeating, “If we’re _careful_ , Evelyn.”

She groaned quietly and lolled her head to the side, “Dad, it’s not like I go out _looking_ for trouble. It just happens to find me.”

Satisfied with the lack of human presence beneath them, Sherlock rose to his knees and mimicked her higher voice as she scowled and he waved his hand dramatically, “‘ _We didn’t even get to chase anyone, Dad!’_ ” Sherlock pursed his lips with sass, “That’s a load of rubbish and you know it.”

She hummed indignantly but let the argument die as she watched Sherlock press the hidden ladder back down. He checked the hallway once more before unfolding the ladder and descending towards the carpeted floor. Evelyn took a moment to gather her thoughts before following Sherlock’s steps down and onto the carpeting.

The detective folded the ladder back up and lifted the secret door up, holding the string down from the ceiling as he eased it back into place.

“That was kind of lucky don’t you think?” Evelyn mused as she watched him ease up the trap door and straighten out his jacket.

“We’re on the top floor, midway through the house, and underneath the apex of the house; there’s not much luck to logic, love. Where else would an attic be?” He replied nonchalantly, turning to check the farthest hallway before motioning her to join him. They quietly padded through the hall until they found another door; old, heavy, and wooden, the door sat snug in its frame and was decorated with handcrafted roses and swirls.

Sherlock pressed it open quietly and peered in before stepping foot inside.

Evelyn inhaled sharply and tapped her feet in excitement as she bolted in front of Sherlock into the room.

Books lined shelves all throughout the library and she sucked in the perfume of ancient leather and printing ink with gusto.

She padded down the short stairway from the door down onto the main floor and peered around the island shelves that lined the middle of the walkway; running to and fro across the wide hall.

“Dad, look at all this! It’s gorgeous!” She whispered as she ran up to a shelf and pulled a nineteen-oh-one print of Charles Dickens’ _A Christmas Carol_ down from its shelf, flipping it open to the first page; her fingers deftly tracing the hundred-year-old letters on the pages.

“ _Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that,”_ she narrated, enthusiasm sparkling in her navy eyes. She enunciated every name with fervor as she read it, “ _The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail._ ”

She shut the cover and hugged it to her chest, “Dad, leave me here to die! It’s beautiful!”

Sherlock walked over to her and leaned against what he presumed to be a reception desk of some sort, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning, “Ah, yes. We’ll have to install one at Baker Street. We do seem to have so much ample space as it is.”

The young woman shifted on her hip scowling, “Stop raining on my parade, you grumpy old man.”

The detective smirked as he glanced around the room, taking in all the information that he could before his ears peaked and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

“I hear something,” he breathed, kicking off of the reception desk and gripping on Evelyn’s arm, dragging her back to the reception desk and pressing her underneath it. Evelyn sucked in a breath and listened intently for the noise that didn’t seem to reach her ears, “I don’t hear-”

Her voice was silenced by her father’s thumb against her lips. His eyes widened pointedly as he mouthed for her to _Shhh._ She nodded in acquiescence and he peered back around the desk as the noise he heard sprang to life in the library floor. Measured footsteps clicked against the wooden stairway across the room they had just climbed down and echoed in the wide hall.

“I know you’re in here, Mr. Holmes,” an American accent called out; the voice dripping with contempt as he lengthened each word into a sing-song of disdain.

Sherlock bristled against Evelyn and finally pinned the voice. He gripped Evelyn’s shoulders and his pale silver eyes pierced into her as he commanded her nigh silently.

“Evelyn, I need you to run.”

Taken aback, she shook her head and scowled, “Wait-what? What do you mean?”

Sherlock’s grip on her upper arms tightened and he quietly growled at her noncompliance. “I’m not debating this with you. I’ll keep his eyes on me, but I need you to run and find Lestrade. Be careful, love.”

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead before she was left flabbergasted as a flourish of greatcoat flared in front of her.

“What the hell?!” She hissed to herself as she gripped the underside of the desk and peered around the edge, just catching the back of Sherlock’s coat swirling behind another shelf.

“I’m not normally a difficult man to find, Mr. Williams,” she heard Sherlock’s baritone call into the room; the depth echoing off of the walls.

Evelyn jumped as a gun went off and she poised herself to run to Sherlock’s aid before his velvet voice drifted through the air again, “Be careful, Mr. Williams! It’s not safe to shoot at things you can’t see.”

Evelyn leaned back against the wood and sucked in a deep breath.  _What the hell is going on? Jesus, Dad, and you say that I go out looking for trouble!_

The American growled and ran through the machines looking for his target, “Come out and fight like a man!”

Evelyn’s head turned as she heard her father’s voice coming from her other side.

“Is it more masculine to fight an unarmed man with a gun? Would you care to explain your rationale?”

Evelyn smirked before she turned back around and found herself nearly nose to nose with the American that glared at her.

“What do we have here?” He spat.

Shocked, she threw a fist directly to his nose and screamed, alerting her father that she had been found. Not taking any more than a second to gather her thoughts, she kicked his ankles from underneath him, his body falling flat to the ground with a sickly _thud_ as she screamed around him and farther into the room.

She heard a growl from behind her and her feet flew down the rows of book-filled shelves and across to the other door. She attempted to pull it open, but the lock jammed and she tugged at it unsuccessfully; beating at the door in frustration before she stole herself behind an abandoned study desk

“Dad!” She called out, knowing that finding her father was more imperative than avoiding the American.

Within the half-second, a dark shadow sprinted past her and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to her feet and dragging her alongside him.

“Come on!” He demanded.

He pulled her back to the original stairwell, seeing as the American was no longer around it and began to ascend.

Evelyn chanced teasing her father as they pounded up the steps, “We’ve really got to work on your choice of friends.”

He cocked an irritated brow at her before rolling his eyes and groaning sarcastically, “Not all of us can be as amiable as you.”

Another shot rang out and ricocheted off of the handrail near Evelyn’s right hand, nicking her forearm in the process. She inhaled sharply as she cradled her arm against her chest and hummed in discomfort.

“I’m fine, Dad, go!” She answered preemptively, as they stepped off of the last stair and back into the hall, slamming the door behind them.

Leather and rubber soles beat against the carpeted floors as they hurried down the halls. Evelyn yelped as a sudden dark mass caught them off-guard and threw Sherlock into the wall on the opposite side of the hall.

A throaty holler escaped Sherlock’s lips as the unseen mass knocked the wind from him and he struggled as the man tried to constrain him.

Evelyn gave herself a mental shake and yanked at the man’s shoulders, pulling him off of Sherlock for a moment while the detective caught his breath.

The man growled, the voice matching the American’s, and his foot knocked Evelyn’s ankles from underneath her, throwing her to the ground with a decent thump. Her head knocked against the wall and she recoiled in on herself, clutching her head in her hands as she tried to pull away from the scuffle.

Sherlock, however, took the moment to pull the American to his feet, planting a fist square in his nose causing his blood to pour profusely from the orifice. The other man hollered and swung back at Sherlock, landing a decent blow to his cheek before stumbling backwards and clutching onto Sherlock’s greatcoat as he fell against the window at the far end of the hall. Sherlock tried to resist the man’s pulling at his cloak, but momentum and gravity fought against him and threw both men through the glass and out of the second story. He felt a sharp pain slice into his cheek and the sound of shattering glass ringing in his ears as loud as the echo of Evelyn hollering his name as he rolled off of the roof, struggling with the American in order to gain the higher ground.

The American rolled over him, holding his body towards the ground until they actually fell off of the awning and onto the grass floor below. The detective landed straight on his back, he head thankfully only landing on grass and dirt, but his right ankle was not as lucky. During the fall, it had smacked against a pillar and landed awkwardly underneath the American’s weight, spraining it, if not fracturing the end of his fibula.  He seethed as he withdrew from the other man and pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, preparing himself for another fight when, to his astonishment, the man ran not towards him, but away from him and around the backside of the house.

He groaned in frustration as he limped around the side of the house, gripping onto the wall to keep his balance. The sounds of sirens filled the air and he heard officers un-holstering their guns and shouting at who he presumed to be the jewel thieves, since the noise was coming from the opposite side of the building.

“Took them long enough,” he muttered sourly as he winced from a little too much pressure on his ankle.

Slowly, but surely, he made his way around the backside of the building and looked around, searching for the American that had made his way into Sherlock’s present from his past.

He turned abruptly as he heard grass shift underneath someone’s feet, but was unlucky enough to not have turned in time to avoid the whip of a pistol to the back of the head. Stars flashed in his vision until he felt the cool of grass against his cheek and the strain of someone’s hand jerking his curls.

“Well hey there, Mr. Holmes; it’s been a long time,” the voice sneered as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut against his will.

 

“Did you miss me?”

 

***

 

Evelyn screamed as she watched the two men crash out of the window and roll down the awning.

“Christ!”

She shot to the window and nearly sliced her hand open in a desperate attempt to watch the two men fall to the ground; a sickly thud making her stomach churn.

_Shitshitshit! You’ve got to find him!_

She spun on her heel and retraced the steps they had taken down the hall, nearly losing her footing as she slid on the carpet around a corner to the stairway. As she padded down the stairs, police sirens began to scream as flashing light came into view and she heard someone hollering “Get down! Hand up and get down!” so she assumed the jewel thieves hadn’t taken the time they were given to escape very efficiently.

_Stupid criminals_ , her mind spat in disgust. _We nearly completely left them to their own devices and they STILL got caught. Makes you wonder how they stole the_ “ _Le Coeur de Fumée” in the first place._

Thinking that running out into a swarm of armed police was probably not the best idea, Evelyn turned for the back, sliding out of a door through the kitchen into the backyard. Under different circumstances, she would have thought this house were beautiful and that the backyard was the perfect place to read and experiment outside due to the beautiful awnings and tree coverage, but under this pretense, her heart fluttered as she searched for her father on the grounds.

She heard a groan and she slid herself in between what she assumed to be a storm shelter and a cluster of bushes; the darkness of which, concealed her from prying eyes.

She peered around the building from her perch and watched as the American man tore from around the corner and pulled out a pistol, holding it against his chest as he leaned his back against the house, hiding in the shadow of what looked like the water heater box.

She narrowed her eyes at him as she tried to pull out any information she could _(American, Five-foot-eleven-inches, ex-military, hit man? Size thirteen shoe, left-handed, nose was broken and not set right, what does he want with Dad?)_

She was pulled out of her reverie as she caught a glimpse of the tall detective limping in to the backyard, carefully scanning his surrounds before hobbling forward.

_Damn, he sprained his ankle. He’s gonna be an absolute nightmare to get that healed,_ she groaned internally as she watched him wince as he put pressure on it.

Before another moment had passed, she watched the American spring from behind the water heater box and knock Sherlock in the back of the head with his pistol. She clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle her quiet yelp as she saw Sherlock swing awkwardly back in retaliation before crumpling to the ground at the other man’s feet.

She felt her cheeks flush with ire as the man gripped her father’s curls and yanked his head up until he lost consciousness. The man mumbled something under his breath and dropped the detective’s face crudely to the ground, holstering his gun.

Evelyn prickled as the man stood straight and searched around the perimeter, dragging Sherlock’s limp body through the grass and towards the storm shelter in her vicinity.

The storm shelter was predominately a pair of doors at a thirty-five degree angle against the bottom of the house. The American dragged her father and purposefully dragged his head too close to the doors and knocked him against the shelter opening. Evelyn bristled and had to swallow the abuse her mouth wanted spew in his direction.

The man jerked the doors opened and unceremoniously threw her father into the opening; Sherlock’s unconscious groan stoking the fire that was erupting in Evelyn’s chest. He slammed the doors shut and went to hitch a lock on the handles, before Evelyn’s heart stopped as her foot slid from underneath her, rustling the mulch and betraying her hidden position.

The American’s hand jumped back to his holster so Evelyn decided to take her chances against the man as opposed to the metal. She jumped out from behind the brush and kicked his legs out from underneath him, attempting to scramble the gun away from his grip, knowing he only had two bullets to spare in it. She squealed as the man fought dirty and gripped her hair at the roots, pulling her down with him and shoving her face into the dirt before pulling himself back up and around her.

She wiped the crud off of her face and spun around, searching for any pressure point she could hit with her range of motion. She struck out to clip one on his neck, but the man batted her away and knocked her to the ground with a snip of her arm.

She rolled away from him and jumped to her feet when his voice caught her off guard.

“You almost fight as well as a man, baby girl!” He said cheekily, his Southern State accent drawling thick on his words.

She snarled and raised her hand, poised to strike his oblique muscles, “Funny, I was going to say the same about you!”

He laughed and dodged around her, locking his arm around her neck. “You’re a little feisty one, aren’t you?”

She struggled against his grip, but his wide shoulders and thick arms had her outmatched. She squeezed out her attitude as she gripped against his muscular arms in an attempt to breathe, “You have… no idea.”

She pulled her leg forward and snapped it back, attempting to dislodge his grip from her, but it only served to bring him to his knees, still holding onto Evelyn and thus bringing her down, too. Losing her footing and being thrust to the ground knocked the wind from Evelyn’s lungs and made her scrabbling at his arms even that much more desperate.

“Come on, baby girl,” he cooed softly, even as his grip on her neck tightened. “Stop fighting with me.”

Her heels cut into the grass, kicking up dirt as she struggled away from him and her nails bit into his flesh, even though it didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.

She heard herself gasp and her throat squeak as it tried to find oxygen from any source and the burn of carbon dioxide in her lungs made her head swim. She pinched her eyes tight and forced herself to focus her thoughts.

_Evelyn, you’ve got a minute and a half to get this guy off of you. Go!_

_Seven seconds_. She lifted an arm and pulled at the American’s hair, but the arms that were wrapped around her upper torso limited her mobility too much for her to get a decent grip.

_Twenty seconds._ She scuffed her shoes against the wood of the doors in an attempt to make as much noise as possible. _Freaking Yard! Can’t you hear me? I need HELP._

_Thirty-seven seconds._ She felt her throat squeak and the man behind her laughed as she continued to fight. “Damn, honey. You sure put up a hell of a fight!”

_Forty-nine seconds._ The arm refused to vacate her neck and the panic she felt welling up inside her chest only caused her to fight harder and her oxygen amount was depleting rapidly. In order to relieve some of the pressure in her chest, she exhaled a half-breath into the air and a pitiful whimper escaped her throat against her will.

_Seventy-four seconds._ Her heart sank as the sounds of sirens melted away and left only the sound of her scuffling to fill the air. Her fingers began to numb and she dumbly slapped them against the man’s head, knowing it would probably only serve to irritate him instead of help her position.

 

_Ninety-seven seconds._ Her entire body ached from struggling and the pressure in her chest was threatening to explode from within her ribcage. _They’re not coming, Evelyn. This is up to you. No on can help you, so think fast!_ On a whim, she fell limp in the assailant’s arms, hoping that he would remove his arms once his purpose had been fulfilled.

 

_One-hundred and four seconds._ “You think you’re smart, don’t you, honey?” His sickly sweet voice breathed in her ear. In response he gripped her neck tighter in his grip. “Sorry, sugar. You’re not that smart.”

 

 

_One-hundred and twelve seconds._ She opened her eyes, and everything took on a black hue that encroached upon her vision. _Damn yank,_ her mind spat venomously.

 

 

Her body finally fell limp; stars that danced in her vision turned into night and the ringing in her ears subsided indefinitely.

 


	22. Lullabies and Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to translate the foreign languages, just paste the words into something like Google Translate and search through Russian. This is the phonetic spelling of everything, so say if you use Google Translate, the actual language will pop up underneath that. Just a little helpful hint! Thanks for reading even with my lulls in posting! You all are brilliant for your comments!

Consciousness swept over Sherlock like cool ocean waves crashing over the dry surface of his mind and he reflexively splayed his hand down flat against whatever surface he was laying against.

_Concrete. Dirt. Scent of blood, sweat, and dust._ He groaned as he inhaled the contents of the world around him until terror welled in his chest and his palms began to sweat.

_No… Not again… Oh my God, please not again._

His brilliant blue eyes shot open with feral ferocity only to be greeted with complete silence and darkness. His mind travelled back two decades and panic began to brew in his chest. His breath began to hitch as he sat up straight and his curls bent back against his head as he brushed against a concrete roof.

He blinked the dirt profusely from his face as he stretched out his body and took in the complete amount of space. His arms touched either side of a container and although his legs stretched into the darkness without touching anything, his heart rate spiked.

_“Poluchit' na zemle, kusok der'ma!”_

“No!” He screamed, throwing his hands to his curls as the ancient words echoed in his mind. “I beat you. I put you all in the _ground_!”

He could feel the walls inching closer to him, bit by bit, threatening to swallow him up in their wake. In retaliation, he pushed hard against the walls that surrounded him, daring them to encroach on his territory. The unnerving crack of whips and chink of chains rattling made his skin crawl, and the pit of his stomach dropped as a familiar, just distance husky voice filled his mind.

_“My sobirayemsya nemnogo razvlech'sya s vami, vy neschastny dusha.”_

He shook his head fervently and grit his teeth, pulling at his hair in an attempt to ground himself from the weight that was beginning to press on his chest.

_That was twenty years ago. They’re all dead. Stop this. Stop panicking. Why can’t you breathe? Breathe. Breathe! Fine, don’t. See if I care. If you’re not going to breathe, at least THINK. Where are you?_

He pinched his eyes closed to focus his mind before forcing them open to peer around his surroundings only to snap them back shut at the sight of the small room.

_They found me. I don’t know how, but they found me._

His chest seized with panic and his ears rang with the jagged breaths that he could manage and he pulled his knees to his chest, only to cry out as his ankle screamed against him.

_You can’t run away this time. You’re done for. This is it, Sherlock._

He moaned in frustration as he shook his head in denial. The room continued to cave in and the darkness was overwhelmingly pungent, so he curled in on himself and waited for the inevitable end: either he’d be swallowed up by the shrinking room or his past would find him and take its retribution.

Either way, he decided, was not pleasant.

 

***

 

_Noise. LOUD noise, is someone yelling? Anyways, you can hear. You can breathe. Beautiful. Not dead. You know, you tend to think that sentence a lot. If you’re thinking in any capacity, I think it’s pretty safe to assume you’re not dead. It’s kind of redundant to state the obvious- oh my God shut up!_

Evelyn groaned lightly as she forced her mind to cease its rambling and sucked in a harsh breath causing her to cough and sputter before forcing her eyes open.

_Jesus, it’s dark. Where are you?_

She splayed her palm on the ground and felt its characteristics.

_Dirt. Concrete. Bits of grass. Whaaaaaaaat a bitch, that arse threw us in the storm shelter. Damn American._

She lifted a hand and rubbed at the bruise blooming over her collar bones and winced as each breath drew through her damaged throat.

_Seriously? Can’t people put me out in ANY other way? Do I just look like someone who likes to be choked?_

Strange images filled her head and she physically shook them away.

_Nope! Bad idea! Bad idea!_

A pained groan filled her ears and she pushed herself to sit up straight to pin it. She narrowed her eyes to see in the dark and found Sherlock curled in on himself against the wall on the far side of the storm shelter.

_Oh, Dad, I’m so glad you’re all right._

She tried to pick herself up, but only knocked the crown of her skull on the concrete box. Stars spinning in her brain, she recoiled back to the ground and found herself crawling on all fours to her father. As she pulled closer she noticed his vibrant trembling and heard him mumbling to himself frantically. She cocked her eyebrows in concern.

_Oh. Bit not good. What happened?_

_“_ Dad?” She asked warily, exposing one palm defensively. “Dad, are you all right?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at her, trying to place her in the dark.

_Young adult, long blonde curls, soft voice, bruises on neck, choked?, blue eyes- creased at corners, soft, deep navy- John’s eyes. Oh. You know her: Evelyn._

His shoulders relaxed, but he shook his head, the curls bouncing in front of his face and panic still brewing in his chest.

“No, I’m not _all right_!” he hollered honestly. “They found us and I don’t know what to do! They should all be _dead_!”

His eyes caught hers and he cocked his head in question. Her eyes were blown wide and her jaw slightly lax as if she had just witnessed the second-coming of Christ himself.

“ _What?”_ He pressed irately, her astonished expression unsettling him.

She blinked profusely and rested a palm too-gently on the knee he had pulled up to his chest. Her voice was soft and comforting, but saturated with unnerving concern.

“Dad, I need you to relax, alright? I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

He snarled and pulled his hands out of his hair and balled them into fists. “What do you mean ‘you can’t understand me’? Did that man choke out your competence, too?”

She bristled and sat back on her heels, huffing indignantly, “Look, I don’t know what you just said, but I don’t think it was very nice. You can understand me, though, right?”

Sherlock groaned and he felt the panic in his chest tighten with frustration, “Of course I can understand you! Do you think I’ve gone mad?”

Evelyn blinked in astonishment and shook her head, mumbling to herself, “Okay. We need close-ended questions.” She brought her face back up and pinched her brows in concern, “Let’s try again. Dad, are you aware that you’re not speaking English?”

_Not speaking English? What do you mean?_ He narrowed his eyes in confusion before shaking his head, “What do you mean? What am I speaking in, then?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and growled to herself in frustration, “Look, this isn’t going to work if you keep answering me in a language I don’t know. Yes or no, okay?”

He nodded his head numbly as the panic in his chest welled and went to his eyes. She softened her expression and placed herself too-close to him, her dirty palm on his cheek. She chuckled as she rubbed at the scabbed-over cut, “That glass got the best of you, didn’t it?” She smiled and kept her face calm and collected as she prodded him again. “Say something simple like ‘yes’ so I can figure out for sure which language you’re speaking.”

Sherlock huffed, but complied, “Yes.”

Evelyn’s face darkened as she pursed her lips at the unfamiliar word, “ _Da?_ Nope, I can’t say I know that one. Erm, you think you could maybe speak a sentence really slowly? I might be able to place an accent or something.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and clutched his coat in his fist, “This is ridiculous. Languages shouldn’t be this hard for you, Evelyn.”

Evelyn blinked unknowingly and shrugged, “Erm, I’m not quite sure. It sounds kind of like… Russian? Oh, I don’t know. Do you speak Russian?”

Sherlock cringed as his mind was plagued with recollections of the cold, of the pain, and of the guttural language that filled his memories of his detainment in Norilsk. She noted the despondency that suddenly filled his pale baby blue eyes and he nodded his head miserably.

In an attempt to lighten his spirits, she smiled and laughed brightly; the sound alien in the gloom that was their prison, “Really Dad, next time you lose your marbles, pick German or French, or something else I know, okay?” She smirked and rubbed on his cheek. “Okay, so you’re speaking Russian. I can’t imagine that’s your first language, is it?”

He shook his head and leaned his chin into his chest, “No.”

Evelyn huffed and leaned back on her heels, “Alright, so it’s not your first language, but you’re upset and reverting back to it. That means that you’ve had to use that language before when you were distressed, is that right?”

Sherlock winced at the thought and his distraught blue eyes met hers, making her heart sink at the sight. “Yes,” he admitted.

The young woman raked her hand through her golden curls and sat on crossed legs. She smirked and her eyes sparkled at him, “Well I’d ask you if you wanted to talk about it, but I wouldn’t be able to help you out very much unless I could understand you.” She cocked her head to the side and chewed her cheek, “I don’t know what you thought happened, but we’re gonna be fine. We’re just locked in the storm shelter behind the house we investigated earlier. There’s probably a padlock or something equally as dramatic on those wooden doors over there.” She lifted her hand to point and scowled at the offending wood.

Sherlock seemed to relax but then suddenly cried out and Evelyn covered her ears as thunder boomed through the sky and reverberated through the concrete block, resounding like an abbey bell stuck too forcefully.

Evelyn peeled her eyes opened and caught Sherlock’s shaking frame in her eyes. His arms were spread out to his side, pressing against the walls that surrounded him and his pallid face was inched in pain as if he couldn’t breathe. She nearly laughed in spite of the situation.

_Shit! I forgot he’s claustrophobic. That’s just bloody brilliant!_

She crouched on her knees and leaned towards him, her head skimming the top of the storm shelter, her palms out defensively towards him, “Okay Dad, we’re gonna take off your jacket and shoes, alright? You’ll feel a lot better; just help me out with this.”

The detective sucked in a deep breath through his grinding teeth and painstakingly retracting his trembling palms from the concrete and relaxing his shoulders; the thick coat sliding off as Evelyn pried at it.

“There we go, that’ll feel a bit better,” she cooed, pulling the fabric away from him and folding it before placing it next to her. She began to untie his shoes to release his feet from constriction and freed the left one without any issues, however as she began to untie the right one, Sherlock hissed as she pulled on his ankle in an awkward angle.

“Sorry!” She winced with him and made every motion slow and deliberate as she finally eased the shoe from around his foot.

Sherlock’s hands found a nest in his hair before Evelyn pulled gently at his wrists. “No, stop that.” She screwed up her face as she tried to think of something that might help. To her dismay, Sherlock’s panic brewed in his chest and his breathing began to rattle.

She shook her head and concern painted her features, “No, no, Dad. Stop panicking! Relax, stop thinking, stop worrying, you’re going to be _fine._ Just breathe, okay?”

Sherlock’s throat whined from the pressure in his chest and she chewed on her lip; an idea finally popping into her mind.

“Look, I’m gonna try something, but I don’t know if it’s gonna help or freak you out more, so erm, let me know, okay?” She said sympathetically.

The detective unclenched his eyes and met hers before nodding and allowing his hands to go limp in hers.

“Okay, good,” she smiled. She scooted up closer to him, still allowing a wide-enough berth as to not crowd him and after wiping them off on her jeans, she placed her cooled hands on his flushed cheeks and his eyes widened in alarm as he began to faintly shake his head.

“Hold on, don’t panic. Just close your eyes. Trust me, okay, Dad?” She soothed, rubbing her thumb over his cheek.

Hot air pulsed from his flaring nostrils, but he complied; allowing Evelyn to rub her middle fingers over his temples and her pinkies touching lightly in the notch of bone before his ear canal. A strangled noise escaped his throat as she placed her fingers on him, but he mollified as she began to massage into his skin.

“Keep your eyes closed and think about your breathing,” she stated sternly, her voice still soft and barely more than a whisper. “In and out, not too deep, just in and out.”

He nodded slowly as he counted his breaths and listened to Evelyn’s voice, “You’re going to be just fine. We’ll get out of here soon, just relax. Think of Baker Street and of Daddy.”

_John,_ he thought longingly. John was still his lighthouse in the darkness; his anchor in the stormy sea.

Evelyn sensed the relief of tension in his body and decided to follow that path, “Think of Daddy, especially then. Think of how he laughs when your experiments blow up in your face and singe your eyebrows.” She cringed through a huffed chuckled, “I guess the same could be said for me.”

Sherlock smiled weakly, but his eyes were still pinched tight with stress. “Think of tea,” Evelyn soothed, her voice soft as silk and cool in his mind, “If Daddy knew you were frightened, he would undoubtedly make tea. It’s his nervous tick. What a stereotypical Brit, I mean really. He totally thinks that tea could fix all the world’s problems if given the chance.” She chuckled and it resonated like soft chimes in the gloom. “Think of how his hands curve around his books and how his glasses sit down on his nose when he reads.” She crinkled her nose and laughed, “I really should tell him how old he looks with them all the way down his lateral cartilage.”

Her teasing had its intended effect and the detective showed his teeth in a half-laugh.

She smiled as the progress, “Speaking of looking old, you need to buy him new jumpers. I don’t think he’s gone clothes shopping since before I was born.”

He laughed earnestly then; the sound resonating in the concrete and warming her chest as his cheeks pinched underneath her palms. Relieved, she continued to rub nonsensical circles in his temples and she began to count his breaths in her head; satisfied that they began to settle, but still concerned at the pain strewn on his expression. She decided to try a musical approach to mollify him and began to hum a song in a low enough key that she could hit every note without raising her voice and she held out every syllable for its entirety in order to prolong the stanza.

“ _Don't you fret, M'sieur Marius. I don't feel any pain.”_

Sherlock initially winced internally at the song choice, but began to relax as he focused on the tones of Evelyn’s voice instead of the lyrics. At first, his mind wandered to his mother’s seventieth birthday celebration where he and Mycroft were forced to endure several hours of discordant screeching from actors who honestly couldn’t reach the notes, but the memories eventually began to subside into nothingness. In their place, then, were birthed euphonious bells, chiming and ringing their bright tones; successfully drowning out the darkness around them and filling his mind with golden hues of light.

_“A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now.”_

As if to enunciate the lyric, thunder clapped against the sky, but Sherlock fixated on Evelyn’s voice and was able to ignore its jarring sounds. Instead, he imagined John’s form in his chair, crinkling his toes in front of their humble hearth and his smaller, deft hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea placed against his sweet lips. The pale oatmeal jumper contrasted the honey glow of his tanned skin and the fire reflected through the sandy strands of his hair. Sherlock suddenly felt a warmth in his chest unrelated to the fire as John turned his head and smiled earnestly, creasing his comforting navy eyes.

_“You're here; that's all I need to know.”_

Sherlock felt himself smile back towards John and the doctor hummed contentedly back at him before nodding to his composition window. The detective turned his head and found the memory of Evelyn curled in on herself against the bookshelf that connected to the wall, clutching a book in her lap as she murmured the same melody unconsciously. He felt the touch of soft hands on his face, caressing his fears away with every brush of skin against his, and he hummed pleasurably as the scent of John’s tea wafted into his senses, imaginary or not.

_“And you will keep me safe_ _. And you will hold me close.”_

Evelyn smiled as she felt his tension dissipate in Sherlock’s expression and a great weight lifted from her chest as she caught a glimpse of his lips curling up as she rubbed nonsensical circles at his temples. The rain against the wood began to drip through the small crevices and onto her skin, but it only made her mind more centered on calming her father instead of concerned about the cold.

_“And rain,”_ she giggled when he quietly returned the lyric wordlessly. _“Will help the flowers,”_ he hummed the duet back to her without words and she smiled.

_“Grow.”_ She finished beaming as she leaned in to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s glowing cheek.

“You’re doing beautifully, Dad. Brilliant, actually. Think you can you say something for me?”

Sherlock pulled himself from his reverie of tea, violin music, and golden hues and opened his eyes to settle on his daughter’s dark face. He smirked, “You’ve inherited your father’s touch, love, but you’ve also inherited his atrocious nail-biting habit.”

She blew out a breath in relief and smiled, wrapping her arms around his steady chest and rested her thumb against her bottom lip as she pulled back, “Yes, well we can’t all be perfect.” She sat back on her heels and smiled warily, “How do you feel?”

Sherlock expanded his torso with a deep breath and nodded, “Better, thank you. My skin is still formicating and will probably continue to until we’re released, but otherwise I am adequately mollified.”

Evelyn snorted and ran a hand through her locks, “You sound like yourself at least.”

He pulled up the side of his lips and nodded in acquiescence. Evelyn rubbed her palms on her jeans and raked a hand through her hair. “So,” she hummed, “Russian, huh?

He huffed out a breath through his nose and nodded again, “ _Svobodno.”_ At her confused look he restated in English, “Fluently. Both Mycroft and I are fluent in several languages: I in most Romantic languages and Russian, and he in those as well as some Eastern ones.”

Evelyn whistled and it echoed in the concrete block, “What did your parents feed you and why didn’t I get any?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “My parents didn’t nourish me anything I haven’t put in your diet.”

Evelyn shook her head and sighed, “Joke, Dad. That was a _joke_.” She wrung her hands nervously and lowered her gaze, “So if Russian is just _one_ of the languages you know, why is it what you speak when you freak out?”

The detective scowled at her pedestrian terms and then lowered his gaze to his clasped hands, “It’s not, normally. I woke up and the room just reminded me of something that happened a long time ago. A misconception that lead to a waking nightmare, if you will.”

The young woman crossed her legs underneath her and twiddled her thumbs, “So if I assumed you were locked in a small concrete box by Russians related to Moriarty and you’ve only been claustrophobic since then…?” She left the question on an up-tone to imply she needed an answer.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, surprised at her insight and bluntness, and sighed, “Then you would assume correctly.”

“Jesus, Dad! What did you _do_?” She asked incredulously, her voice a tad too loud in the small box.

Sherlock prickled and narrowed his eyes, “I didn’t _do_ anything, Evelyn. Mind your tongue.”

Taken aback at his reply, she leaned back and cowed, “I was just curious. No need to be ugly about it. I just wanted to know if you were always like that or if it was a new thing.”

The detective cocked his head and she shrugged, “You don’t like the dark. You always turn on the light before walking into a room, even if you’re only in there for like three seconds. Also, you always make either Daddy or I grab stuff from the linen closet and pantry and at first I thought it was just because you couldn’t be bothered, but one day I caught you fighting with yourself before grabbing a blanket from it.” She raised her eyes, “I don’t know, it looked like you were afraid that the closet was going to swallow you up. Plus, you don’t like taking the elevator at the Yard and when we have to, you’re super jumpy. Daddy just thinks you’re excitable, but I always notice how you clutch at his sleeve like you’re afraid he’s gonna disappear.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but a metallic ping interrupted his thoughts.

Evelyn’s pocket vibrated and she gasped, “Oh my God, Daddy! He must be absolutely frantic!”

She fumbled through her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her stomach dropped as she slid open her screen and she groaned.

“How deep are we?” Sherlock queried flatly.

Evelyn winced, “Fifty missed calls, fifteen voicemails, and twenty-seven text messages- deep.”

Sherlock sucked his teeth and leaned his head back, “Well, I suppose you should probably ring him back before he has an aneurism.”

Evelyn opened up the messages and read through them.

 

From: Daddy

_Hope you’re enjoying being a detective. Be safe. –Daddy_

_20:30_

_Do you want me to keep dinner warm for you? –Daddy_

_21:16_

 

_Aren’t you both supposed to be back by now? –Daddy_

_22:00_

_Evelyn, you’re making me nervous, why won’t you answer your phone? –Daddy_

_22:20_

_Evelyyyyyyyyyyyn, it’s only common courtesy to keep your father informed of your whereabouts. –Daddy_

_22:30_

_E_

_22:31_

_V_

_22:32_

_E_

_22:32_

_L_

_22:32_

_Y_

_22:33_

_N_

_22:33_

_Evelyn, you aren’t answering your phone and neither is your father. Are either of you hurt? –Daddy_

_22:45_

_Evelyn you had better be dead or in jail if you’re not answering me. –Daddy_

_22:47_

_Please don’t actually be dead. –Daddy_

_22:48_

_Answer my calls, Evelyn! –Daddy_

_22:59_

_Greg said you’re not in jail and he hasn’t seen you. Where are you? –Daddy_

_23:10_

_Evelyn, if I need to come find you, please call me. –Daddy_

_23:14_

_Sweetheart, if you can’t tell, I’m incredibly concerned. Please be OK –Daddy_

_23:20_

_Evelyn, I called the Yard but they have no idea where you are. Answer your damn phone! –Daddy_

_23:27_

_Evelyn Mary Watson if you don’t answer your phone in the next ten minutes, I am calling your Uncle Mycroft and I’m having him check every bloody CCTV camera in London for you. –Daddy_

_23:35_

_Are you high? If you’re on drugs and you don’t want me to know about it, that’s understandable, but I need to know where you are. I won’t yell at you if you are, just call me. Please. –Daddy_

_23:40_

_Two more minutes. –Daddy_

_23:43_

_That’s it. Your arse is as grounded as far as China. You are NEVER going on another case again. –Daddy_

_23:47_

_I didn’t mean that. Not really. Please come home. Don’t be dead. –Daddy_

_23:55_

_Mycroft says he can’t find you. Please Evelyn, call me back. I’m terribly worried. –Daddy_

_23:59_

 

_Please, PLEASE don’t be dead, Evelyn. I’m coming to find you. I called Greg and I’m going to the house you both were investigating. If you’re there, please let me know. –Daddy_

_01:16_

_Evelyn, I swear to God, if you’re dead, I’m going to resurrect you and kill you myself. I’m here. If you hear me calling, answer me. –Daddy_

_01:48_

“He’s here, Dad,” she said plainly, tapping at her phone to pull up his contact. She dialed his number and sighed, “Here goes nothing.”

The phone had barely made it through its second ring before the line picked up.

“ _Evelyn! Evelyn, love, are you all right? Where are you? I’ve been worried sick! Are you with Dad? Is he okay? I swear to God, I’m going to strangle both of you!”_

After the first word, Evelyn held the phone away from her face and even though her phone wasn’t on speaker, both Sherlock and she could hear John’s ranting.

_“Evelyn? Why aren’t you talking? Are you all right? Say something, dammit!”_

Evelyn placed the phone back on her ear and cleared her throat, “Daddy, relax, I’m fine. We’re both fine. Well Dad maybe not as fine as I, but all in all, we’re all right. We just had a little… snafu.”

She heard John growl over the line and she pulled the phone away from her ear reflexively.

_“A little ‘snafu’?! That’s what you call this?! You had better have a damn good reason for not answering me! Where are you? I’ve been searching this house for twenty minutes and I can’t find you. Are you not here?”_

Evelyn rolled on her back and kicked her feet against the wooden doors that barely budged even with the force, “We’re outside, Daddy. We got attacked and some damn American locked us in a storm shelter. Can you hear me kicking the doors?”

She heard the shuffle of feet down stairs and John huffing in frustration, _“Well I’m not outside yet, give me a second. The weather’s dreadful; how long have you been out there?”_

Evelyn pulled the phone away from her face to check the time, “I guess about a few hours or so. I’m not quite sure. Dad was pistol-whipped and erm…” She rubbed on her neck unconsciously as she lowered her gaze, “I ended up incapacitated as well. We just came to.”

John groaned on the other side and the thunder that clapped in the sky echoed over the line, “ _You had better hope I don’t incapacitate_ you _as well. Evelyn, I have been worried SICK!”_

She cringed and rubbed nervously on her elbow as her feet stilled, “I know, Daddy, I’m sorry. We didn’t _mean_ for it to happen. We actually actively tried to _avoid_ it happening. We were trying to find our way back to the Yard before this crazy man threw Dad through a window-”

“Evelyn, enough!” Sherlock interrupted curtly, shooting her an abrasive glance. The damage had already been done, however, and he groaned as he heard John’s fury over the speaker.

_“Thrown through a wind-, what?! I tell him to NOT get you hurt and he gets himself thrown through a bloody window! Do either of you ACTUALLY listen to me or do I just speak into the air?”_

“Everyone speaks into air, John, that’s how humans communicate,” Sherlock sighed nonchalantly as he tied his shoes back onto his feet, wincing as he moved the right one.

“ _Sherlock Holmes! That. Is. IT! Your arse is MINE when I find you! And NOT in a way that you’ll enjoy, I promise!”_

“Daddy!” Evelyn squealed, her body stilling in disgust. “Could you _not_ do that while I’m on the phone?”

She heard the echo of rain sloshing about on the other line as John’s voice cracked through, “ _You deserve it, you stupid kid! How can you expect me to trust you on your own when you get beaten up when your father’s around?”_

She moaned as she began to kick against the wood again, “Yes, well don’t you think it might have been _worse_ for me if he hadn’t been here with me? And I work fine on my own! I solved my _own_ case last week!”

She frowned as he scoffed, “ _Ah yes, the mystery of the horse-less buggy. Congratulations, you are now a prime-time detective.”_

The phone fritzed out as John hollered Evelyn’s name into the air. She kicked against the wood to the point her ankles hurt, but continued to do so. “I’m kicking the door. We’re in the back.”

_“Okay, I’ll be there in a second.”_ He replied curtly before disconnecting the call.

Evelyn sighed and glanced over at Sherlock who was fixing his jacket over his dirty silk shirt, “Well, we’re in for it now, aren’t we?”

 

***

 

_I’m going to kill them. I’m gonna kill them. I am going to kill them until they are dead and then I am going to resurrect them and do it again. Damn detectives and their bloody curiosity._

John fumed as he walked out of the back door and around towards the back of the house, pulling his jacket tighter around his torso against the chill of the wind and the rain. The storm had made its presence very well-known and demanded to be respected by the unfortunate souls that happened to find themselves trapped inside of it.

He sucked in a deep breath and bellowed his Captain Watson voice, pausing to listen for a response, “EVELYN!”

He held his breath, but no sound greeted him so he tried again, “SHERLOCK! ANSWER ME DAMMIT!”

He paused again and was thankfully greeted by the thrumming of feet against thick wood. He sloshed through the mud and grass and found the storm shelter, locked by a padlock wrapped around two iron handles. He groaned and shook his head as the pounding continued against the doors.

He bent down and rapped on the wood with his knuckles, “I’m right here, you two. You realize there’s a padlock on this right?”

Whoever was kicking against the door ceased and Sherlock’s voice, uncharacteristically small and fragile-sounding, replied, “John, do you know how to pick locks?”

John shrugged and chewed his cheek, “I mean, I _can_ , but I’m not very good at it. Even so, I don’t have any tools.”

His husband’s shaking voice called back to him, “I do, or rather I did, before that Philistine knocked me out of the window. Look around where I fell for a small leather pouch.”

John huffed in frustration and kicked the concrete opening, “How the hell am I supposed to know where you fell?”

A weight lifted from his chest to hear more animation in his husband’s voice, but he prickled at the insult, “Oh I don’t know, John. Perhaps you should try and find some glass on the ground and if there’s a broken window directly above it, that _might_ be where I fell.”

John groaned and waved his hand dismissively, “Sod off! I’m gonna go find something, I’ll be right back.”

He spun on his heel and surveyed the grounds through the dark rain, narrowing his eyes in order to see anything. Thunder clapped in the sky and the lightning flashed a bit of revealing light on the ground, allowing him to pinpoint a disused shed in the distance.

He set off, boots sloshing against the slippery grass and sludge, and after slipping and mucking up his already-soaked jeans, finally found himself standing before the rotting wooden door of the building, gooseflesh prickling everywhere on his skin and his jaws sore from his teeth shattering in his mouth. He traced his fingertips over the wood and pressed; the fragile material giving way from the pressure. He stepped back and suddenly thrust his shoulder into the door, delighted to see how easily it disintegrated under his weight.

As he stumbled through, he shifted his gaze in every direction, checking for any unwanted intruders, before setting off to examine the building’s contents.

_This place is full of utter shit_ , his mind remarked as he glanced around. Useless junk piled high to the roof and dust painted every surface with its ancient tinge. He yelped as he lifted a tattered tarp and a family of small vermin scuttled away on the floor, the ghost of their footprints on John’s feet sending shivers down his spine.

He searched around the room until something caught his eye and he smiled; a devilish gleam in his eye.

“Perfect.”

 

***

 

Evelyn rubbed fervently on her shoulders and blew warm air on her chest as she shivered, “God, it’s really cold.”

Sherlock leaned forward and tugged at the jean material on her knee, “Come here, love. Daddy will be back soon.”

She lifted her gaze and smiled back at Sherlock’s half-grin before shifting her body to sit beside him, allowing him to wrap the expanse of his jacket around the both of them. Sherlock wrapped his lanky arm around her frame and rubbed on her trembling form, pressing his lips to her crown as she leaned into him.

He straightened as he heard boots sloshing outside of their prison and tensed against his daughter until a familiar voice called out.

“It’s just me, don’t worry! Are either of you right next to the door?”

Evelyn shook her head even though she knew he couldn’t see her, “N-no. We’re against a concrete wall over on this side.”

“Alright then, stay over there, okay?” John hollered back to compensate for another clap of thunder.

Sherlock readied himself to say something facetious about being locked in a concrete box, but the strike of a blade against the wood stole the words from his mouth. It was retracted and then again something that looked very similar to an axe tore through the thick wood at the edge of the wood farthest from them and Sherlock pulled Evelyn closer to his chest, panicked.

His eyes blew wide and his voice was strained as he barked, “John! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?!”

Without missing a beat with his weapon, John huffed out an irrefutable point, “Well, I married you, didn’t I?”

Sherlock’s rebuttal died in his throat and Evelyn snorted against his tight grip on her torso, “He has a point.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then raised his arm to shield their faces from the splintering wood.

John spent several minutes hacking at the door until it separated from the concrete wall. He tossed aside his tool and leaned forward to heave what was left of the right door away, and he folded it over the left door and then folded that away, exposing the entire opening to the concrete box. Before he could open his mouth to speak, a dark mass hopped out of the opening and wrapped his arms around John’s torso, knocking the wind out of him and nearly sending him off his feet.

His anger subsided the moment contact was made and he relieved his tension through a long sigh, wrapping his sopping wet arms around his husband’s back in return. His face found its niche in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and he kissed the damp, flushed skin lightly, noticing Sherlock’s slight trembling, “I was worried sick about you, you wanker.”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder and mumbled “I know” into John’s hair. John gripped him tightly for a moment before pulling away and reaching his hand into the concrete block to pull Evelyn out and into the storm. He embraced her with enough force that she thought her eyes were about to pop out of her skull from the pressure, but she hugged back with just as much necessity.

She felt his hand, trembling from the effort of breaking down the door, reach around and cup the back of her head and press it into his chest as if he needed more evidence that she was alright. As he spoke, his voice rumbled through both of their bodies, “I am so glad you’re safe, Evelyn. I didn’t know if I was going to find you _alive_ or if I’d even find you _at all_ and I have never been so scared in my entire bloody life. You will _never_ do that to me again, do you understand me?”

Evelyn smirked against his soaked jacket and nodded, “Yes, Daddy, I’m sorry. Look, could we settle this inside? I’m freezing.”

John kept her in his embrace for a moment longer and then let go, pressing his lips against her forehead before turning around and smiling warily at Sherlock. Thunder clapped in the sky again, and the lightning that preceded it lit up Sherlock’s figure enough for John to notice the favor he placed on his right foot, the heel not even touching the ground.

“What did you do?” He questioned seriously as he wrapped Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder and began to walk towards the house, acting as his crutch.

Sherlock shrugged against him and sighed, shaking the rain from his sopping curls, “It’s just a sprained ankle, John. I’ll be fine, stop overreacting.”

John growled as Evelyn opened the back door and he hauled Sherlock’s dripping form into the back area, “I think I’d rather be the judge of that, if it’s all the same to you.” The drenched pair limped into the kitchen and John nodded towards an old chair that had been left in the corner, “Evelyn, check that chair and see if it can hold his weight, would you?”

She jumped across the room and pushed down on the seat, and when it didn’t falter, she sat on it and wiggled, testing its sturdiness. Satisfied, she dragged the chair into the middle of the room and behind Sherlock, who skeptically leaned back on it, holding his ankle in the air as he did so.

“It’s really nothing, John. I’d rather just go home,” he whined dramatically.

John ignored his plea and set to work gently untying his laces and easing his swollen appendage out of its sheath. “Damn, Sherlock, you did a number on this.” Sherlock hissed a sharp breath through clenched teeth as John kneaded the swollen area and turned his ankle in his hands. “Looks like a Grade Two sprain, love. We’ll need to wait till we get home, but I’m pretty sure you’re gonna need an air splint.”

Evelyn groaned and shifted onto her hip, “How are you planning on keeping him entertained for two weeks?”

John smirked, “I’m not. You’ve graduated and I have work at the surgery, so guess who gets to stay home and play nanny?” He grinned and mouthed “ _Not me!”_ at her and she grimaced.

Sherlock scowled at their conversation, “You do realize I am _right here_?”

Evelyn groaned and crossed her arms, “Why me?”

John examined the ankle a little more thoroughly before cocking an eyebrow at his daughter, “Because you two got yourselves into this mess, you can take care of each other afterwards. And because I said so and neither of you are in much of a position to argue with me.”

Sherlock clapped a hand on John’s mouth and narrowed his eyes. A muffled curse came from outside the kitchen and John bristled against his husband. He pulled his mouth away from him and whispered, “Who is that and why did he lock you in a storm shelter?”

Sherlock sat silent for a moment as he listened to the man outside rustle about in the storm before mumbling under his breath, “His name is Richard Williams. After The Fall I did some work over in the States. He was my point of contact through which I used him to destroy Moriarty’s web in New York, but he supposedly died in a fire.” He caught John’s eye and shook his head, “Not one I started. I checked the remains that they had of him, but the body was desecrated. Either way, I was glad to see his corpse. He sold me out to a Russian group that supplied Moriarty with weapons called, _‘Khraniteli’;_ it translates roughly to ‘The Keepers’.” John raised his brows at Sherlock’s Russian tongue before he asked his question.

“Okay, if he sold you out, why would he keep you and Evelyn alive?” He saw Evelyn stiffen in her stance and he shook his head, “Not that I’m not eternally grateful, but it doesn’t make sense. He had you both at his mercy; why wouldn’t he want you dead?”

Sherlock stilled and pulled himself close to John’s ear to hide his lips from Evelyn’s eyes, “He does, but on his own terms, so get Evelyn out of here. She won’t listen to me and she’ll just be collateral damage that Williams is not afraid to get his hands dirty with.”

John grimaced and shook his head, “No, Sherlock. We’re not just going to leave you here especially when you can’t even walk on your own.” His eyes shifted to the antsy girl, “She’s capable of keeping herself safe as long as we’re here, too. Look, we’ve not very long till that man comes inside and we’ve no time for an argument so what’s the plan?”

Sherlock pursed his lips until he recognized the glare in John’s eye that meant he wasn’t going to win and conceded the dispute, holding his hand out.

 

“Help me up.”


	23. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff. Pretty short chapter, but get ready! Thanks for reading!

_To be called anything as banal as a ‘storm’ would be an insult_ , Sherlock thought as he listened half-heartedly to the outside elements tear each other apart as he sat in the library; ankles crossed precariously on a soft couch near the neglected hearth. He found that he was surprisingly dry for being soaked to the bone only moments before. He sighed and flushed the anxiety from his chest though his breath.

_John has Evelyn; everything is going to be fine. Now it’s time to play the game._

He heard a shift against the worn carpet and his ears piqued; he mind tensed as his body seemed to lounge lackadaisically in is large seat.

“It surely took you long enough to crawl back out of the rabbit hole, Mr. Williams,” he called quietly, knowing that his intended recipient was not out of earshot.

As it were, the man crept from around a bookshelf and sauntered to Sherlock’s side, nodding politely before taking the seat opposite him, “It’s real nice to see you again, Holmes. Where’s that pretty little rosebud you had trailing your tail earlier?” His voice dripped with sarcasm and every “R”-syllable growled with a drawling curl at the end of each word.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, waving flippantly, “She ran away, I’m afraid. I think you scared her off.”

Richard laughed heartily and clapped his knee, “I just might have! She put up one hell of a fight, let me tell you!” He whistled, “She’s a firecracker!”

The detective barely contained a contemptuous sneer and kept his face placid, “Yes, that she is.”

“People with such fire aren’t normally very fickle, if you catch my drift,” he hummed, cocking a deep brunette eyebrow at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged, “Well, if you’d like to search the house for her, be my guest. _Or_ we could conserve the time and you could just tell me why you were skulking around a pair of inept criminals who happened to stumble upon a stolen gem.”

“Right to the point, I like that!” He hollered, too loud for the small expanses of the library. He folded his hands under his chin, the stubble scratching at his weathered skin, “Well, you see, Holmes, you spent a lot of years painting the Queen’s roses red and as it turns out, she wants your head.”

The detective laughed mirthlessly, “Yes, well she isn’t the first to have that wish and I guarantee she won’t be the last.”

The American hummed a short tune, “Unless she gets it.”

Sherlock corrected him, “ _If_ she gets it.”

The other man smirked, “You seem mighty confident for someone with an entire kingdom on his heels.”

“An entire kingdom would insinuate that there are any cards left to battle.”

“Enough with the cipher, it’s making me sick,” the American moaned dramatically. “Look, you’re in trouble in you need my help.”

Sherlock couldn’t contain himself and he scoffed, “What on earth makes you believe that I would want anything to do with you, Williams? If memory serves me right, you traded my misplaced trust for guns.”

The other man rubbed his neck as he smirked, “Yeah, well, we all make mistakes.”

“Who died in that fire, then?” Sherlock queried after a long moment of silence as he inspected a non-existent fuzzy on his coat.

The American suddenly seemed on edge and withdrew into himself. _Interesting_ , Sherlock noted. “He was a good buddy of mine,” he said, balefully, as if the memory actually pained him. “He was a good man and a damn good partner.”

Sherlock cocked his head, actually interested now, “You loved him.” Not a question.

Richard seemed taken aback, but said nothing on the matter ( _So it’s true.)_ , “Look, I’ve made some bad choices before. Selling you out was one of them. If I had known who you were, I wouldn’t have done so, but that’s water under the bridge at this point.”

The detective quirked his brow and the American continued, “Look, I know you’ve got a gun in here and I know the barrel is aimed at my head. I’m on the lower ground here.” He pulled his pistol from his jacket and slid it across the table between them. It stopped just before Sherlock’s end of the table and Richard sighed, “If I wanted you dead, Holmes, I’d have killed you instead of keeping you safe.”

“You and I have very differing opinions on safety then,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and heated.

The American looked flabbergasted, “What’s safer than a concrete box?!”

“Shooting at me doesn’t necessarily give me the notion that you were trying to protect me either! And what about the girl?” Sherlock pressed, his hackles showing. “Why did you hurt her?”

“For one, you know how sharp a shooter I am. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have missed. Anyways, I wasn’t trying to hurt her! I was going to leave her alone before she attacked me! She tried to get her hand on my gun so I didn’t have a choice. I put her down gently, or at least it _would_ have been gently if she hadn’t been so eager to get away.” He shook his head as he sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. “I know who she is, Holmes. I know how far you’ve spread yourself.” He paused and raised his hand, “Look, I’m glad you got out and built a domestic life. Really, I kind of envy it. I know about your husband and I know you and he raised a little girl.” He smirked as he raised his head, “You did a pretty decent job, too. I mean, she nearly got the upper hand on me; the girl knows how to fight, I’ll give her that. But look, buddy, y’all are in some _serious_ trouble.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked, nonplussed.

“Look, you need to work with me, Holmes,” the American urged, eyes wide. “I’m trying to make up for what I did back then.”

The detective sniffed and then took in his appearance more closely, his face softening as he realized. “You’re dying.” Again, not a question.

The American stiffened and then sighed in resignation, “You were always really weird about that kind of stuff,” he admitted, laughing mirthlessly. “I’m trying to make amends, Holmes. I did you real bad back then and I’ve got a few months before I’ll be gone.”

“How large is the tumor?” Sherlock pressed, noting the shaky movement in his eyes.

Richard shrugged, “Doc says about the size of a lemon. They can’t get it out without the chance of making me a vegetable so I just decided to let it go.”

The American pleaded with his hands, “Look, Holmes, we did some real good work back then. We worked real well together and brought down some major players back in the day, but I’m afraid a couple have come back.”

Sherlock’s interest was finally piqued, “Go on.”

The crew-cut hair rustled as he brushed his fingers through it. “Holmes, we fought against the Queen and the spider web, but I’m afraid we didn’t do enough. The queen came back.”

Sherlock bristled, “Impossible. Moriarty is dead and so is his brother.”

“I didn’t say it was the _same_ Queen,” he retorted, pleasantly as if this were the morning coffee they were speaking about instead. “The new Queen’s been picking up the broken pieces we left. It’s been a long, hard road for her, but I’m afraid she’s found her own deck of cards. I don’t think she wants anything to do with your family, but I know she’s still angry with you.”

“Who is it?”

“A man named Moran, I think? I mean, how can you be sure that anyone actually belongs to the name they claim, right Mr. Harkinson?” He added, pointedly.

Sherlock brushed it off, but bristled at the name, “Moran should be dead. Are you sure it’s him?”

Richard shrugged, “I think, Holmes, you’re gonna have to accept that you’re not the only one who has the uncanny ability to come back from the dead.”

Piercing blue eyes narrowed at the American, “How can I trust you?”

Richard worried his lips between his teeth before shaking his head, “You can’t. But I’m afraid you’re not gonna have much of a choice.”

“How do you know all this?”

John’s voice echoed unnaturally in the library as he crept up behind Richard’s chair, barrel still aimed at his head.

The American twisted in his seat and smiled at the sandy-haired man, extending his hand, “Doctor John Watson, what a pleasure it is to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you and your famous blog.”

John refused to lower his weapon, but nodded politely, “Forgive me if I don’t say the same about you. Answer my question. How do you know all this about Moran and Moriarty’s web of crime?”

Richard retracted his ignored hand and chewed his cheek, “Your husband and I used to work the rung back in the day. We tore down most of the operations in America and we became pretty good allies.”

“Of course until you sent him to the other side of the world with no hope of ever returning, yeah?” John snorted furiously as his hands tightened around the grip of his Sig.

Richard sighed and raked a hand through his short hair, “That wasn’t _really_ how everything went down, buddy. Yes, I sold him out; we’ve established that already. But I had no idea who he was nor did the Russians. And I used it to establish a rapport with them! If I hadn’t, they wouldn’t have fallen so easily when you finally got out!”

Sherlock’s voice boomed uncharacteristically loud as he retorted, “Yes, after I finally escaped from being imprisoned for a month and a half in a three by three meter concrete box stationed in one of the northernmost cities in the world! Can you even fathom what _happened_ because of your pitiful attempt to establish a meaningless _rapport_?”

Both John and Richard cringed at Sherlock’s words and Richard shook his head forlornly at the fuming detective, “No, Holmes. I’ve no idea what they did to you, but I hadn’t intended on it lasting a real long time.” He raised his eyes and caught Sherlock’s furious ones. “I had planned on coming to get you out, but when I finally had the resources, the fire happened and I had to start over from scratch. By the time I could get to you, you had already broken out and fallen back off the face of the Earth.” He shook his head, “I didn’t _mean_ for anything terrible to happen, but I’m sorry; I can’t go back and change what happened- I can only prepare you for the future.”

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” Evelyn’s voice drastically contrasted the atmosphere in the room with its soft, bell-like tones. She came around and sat on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, studying Richard from across the table. She tilted her head, “You’ve told three lies since you’ve been here. You half-heartedly denied loving your friend who died in the fire. You also lied about your aim. Your hands are trembling and your left pupil is slightly larger than your right which would throw off your depth perception. You might have been shooting off warning shots, but the fact that they were close to hitting us was because you couldn’t see where you were shooting; not because you didn’t want to hit us.”

Richard’s breath caught in his throat as he listened to her deductions. “And the third one?”

Her brow pursed in sympathy and she pinched on Sherlock’s jacket, “You’ve not got a few months to live. Judging by the state of your eyes and hands, and the fact that you take even more time than is expected, even with your Southern drawl to speak, states that your mind is deteriorating far faster that you let off. You probably have no more than a month; two at most.” She pursed her lips and her eyes softened honestly, “I’m sorry, but I’m saying this because I don’t think you’re lying about wanting to save my Dad. You’re a stupid man, but not a heartless one.”

The man laughed mirthlessly and shook his head, “Damn, right chip off the old block, isn’t she, Holmes?”

Sherlock’s hand rested on her knee as he stared sternly at the man before him, “What would you have me do, then?”

Richard shook his head, “I don’t know for sure. I’d say that getting out of the country or at least the city for a while might not be a bad idea. Stay out of the limelight for a while until the Queen finds a new plaything. I’m sure she’s already aware of your situation, but I don’t know if she’s willing to risk her new army over you.”

He stood up and straightened out his jacket as he mumbled, “Just so you know, I wasn’t actually related to those thieves. I wanted to talk to you and I just happened to follow you here. You should thank me though. While you were out chasing shadows around the house, I incapacitated those degenerates long enough for the cops to find them. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Sherlock stood, actively not placing any weight on his ankle, but also keeping it flat on the floor. “Mr. Williams, I do not trust you, but I…” he searching the air for an appropriate term, “ _appreciate_ your effort to warn us.”

Richard held out his hand and smiled, “T’was the least I could do, buddy. I’m not asking for your trust either; just want you to watch your back.”

Sherlock leaned over the table and shook his hand before Richard laughed humorlessly again, “I’ll make sure someone sends you an invite to the funeral, Holmes. Y’all just might be the only ones to come by!”

The detective clasped his hands behind his back and nodded politely as John mumbled from behind him, “That might very well be the case, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

The American laughed and shook his head, “I suppose not. Will I see you ‘round?”

Sherlock’s face was expressionless as he muttered back, “I do hope not.”

Richard thinned his lips and nodded, “Rightly so.” He produced a piece of paper with scrawled writing on the back, “Well, give me a holler if you’re ever in need of some help; at least in the near future.”

The detective plucked the paper from his fingertips and his piercing eyes watched the American as he retreated from the library, John’s gun following his every move until the door shut behind him and they heard footsteps patter down the hallway.

Evelyn gripped her chin and frowned, “Well, that was definitely one of the stranger occurrences I’ve ever witnessed.”

John lowered his gun and chewed his cheek at Sherlock, “So, Sherlock, what are we going to do now?”

The detective shrugged and shoved the paper in his pocket while catching John’s eye.

“I hear Sussex is rather pleasant this time of year, John.”

 

***

 

“What did you feed her, John?”

Sherlock heard himself speak to his husband in his mind before the words escaped his throat. He looked around and watched a four year old girl run in circles around their chairs, squealing and screaming as she tripped over the carpet and picked herself back up and continued pressing a divot into the floor.

John raked a hand through his more-blonde-than-gray hair and shook his head, “I didn’t feed her anything out of the ordinary. I don’t even think she ate any sugar today.”

His husband plopped down next to him on the sofa and the two men watched the little girl entertain herself around the room. John sighed, “I’m getting tired just watching her.”

Sherlock hummed and smirked as he cocked his head towards his husband, “It’s eleven ’o’ clock at night and she’s wound up like a top. You let her take a nap, didn’t you?”

John furrowed his brow as he recollected the day, finally shaking his head, “Nope, not that I can remember. We went to the park and she ran around with some of the other children and then we came home and you’ve been home ever since.” He shrugged and waved his hand flippantly, “I mean she fell asleep in the cab, but I can’t imagine she was out for more than five minutes.”

Sherlock whined and fell sideways on the couch dramatically, “ _John!_ You let her fall asleep before eight. She’s gonna be at this _forever_ now!”

John huffed indignantly and shook his head, “You _cannot_ tell me that five minutes caused _this_!” He waved his hand at the giggling girl and scowled. “It was _five bloody minutes_! She barely had time to turn over in her sleep much less recharge to _this_ giggling mess. How was I supposed to know?!”

Sherlock moaned, “Don’t you pay _attention_ , John? She barely sleeps more than seven hours a night as it is. When you let her take naps, she just conserves the energy like a battery. It’s as trying as it is impressive.”

John grimaced and then stilled as the giggling ceased and silence rang through the flat. He turned his head and searched for the girl, “Oh, now she’s found something. This is your-”

His words caught in his throat as his eyes finally found her in the middle of the room. She was standing next to Sherlock’s chair with her face was flat against the cushion; her golden curls covered her face, but he could see her shallow breaths pushing them away from her lips. He crinkled his nose and laughed quietly, “What- I- Sherlock, is she _asleep_?”

Sherlock turned his head and looked at the girl standing next to his chair and laughed, “I don’t know, can you fall asleep standing up?”

John grinned and pulled himself from the couch and walked over to Evelyn’s still form, waving a hand in front of her face. “Evelyn,” he whispered, “Evelyn, darling, are you awake?” He paused a moment and a light snore greeted him and he had to bite on his knuckle to keep himself from laughing out loud, turning to gesture towards her at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in amusement and he giggled quietly, “John, that is the oddest thing I’ve ever seen. Do children normally do that?”

John shook his head in disbelief and pressed his first to his lips to quiet his laughter, “She’s just… _out_. Like a light! Should I put her in bed or-?”

Sherlock waved his hand frantically as he whispered, “Nononono!” He sat up and pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa, walking across the way and draping it over her vertical body. “She’s asleep, let’s keep it that way.”

John stood back and pulled his phone from his pocket, snapping a picture of the bizarre sight and ruffling his hair with his other hand, “That’s adorable. Sherlock, I think we should send this in her graduation announcements.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned against his husband, the warmth of his body filling his own as John wrapped an arm around his waist and held him tight.

He felt his vision fuzz on the edges and he pressed a kiss to John’s head just as he did in the memory.

“I love you, John.”

The sound of his own voice outside of his head startled him awake and his eyes darted open, searching his surroundings.

The walls had a rustic stone look and the window to their far left was just beginning to allow the gleam of sunlight in through the glass. The hand-crafted furniture spread across the inn room was homey and the scent of seasoned wood wafted through the air.

He looked down as John’s arm gripped his torso tightly and his head nuzzled against his pectoral. A drowsy voice still rough with sleep, mumbled at him, “Love too, Sh’lock.”

Sherlock hummed contentedly as John’s breathing shallowed and the doctor fell back into the clutches of slumber with a quiet whine. Sherlock felt his husband’s eyelashes flutter against his skin as he began to dream again and he looked down affectionately at the man who had become his life. Time had been kind to the good doctor and age only accented his features instead of becoming them. Sleep softened the crow’s feet near his eyes and the worry lines across his forehead and mouth faded away from sight. His hair, although in the same quantity and thickness, had grayed and the blonde had become mere highlights in the silver.

Sherlock lowered his gaze from John’s face and traced down the curves on his neck and shoulders, the muscles still strong and sturdy, but now pillowed by a thin sheet of delectable skin and fatty tissue that softened their appearance. Veins sat near his skin and Sherlock trailed them down his arms and into his hands: hands that healed and hands that killed. Sherlock smirked as he thought about it. John was always the puzzle that Sherlock would never solve; the man of conundrums and delightful mysteries.

The fingers of said hand suddenly began to curl and spasm against his chest and Sherlock crooked his neck to catch a glimpse of John’s face. His brow had furrowed and the detective watched as his pointer finger began to twitch so he tightened his grip on John’s shoulders, rubbing gently at his back and arms. _Trigger reflex,_ Sherlock thought.

His velvet voice hummed through the air and he rubbed his nose in John’s short hair, “No, no, love. Come back, you’re all right. I’ve got you, John.” He pressed a kiss to his crown and purred, “I’ve always got you.”

He hummed without lyrics and flattened John’s hair with his palm as he felt the good doctor’s breath whine against his skin. He decided to preemptively cease his problem and began to pat on John’s arm, “John. John, love, wake up.”

John rubbed his brow into Sherlock’s chest and sucked in deeply before the detective felt eyelashes flutter against his pale skin.

“Sh’lock?”

Sherlock rubbed on John’s back and pressed another kiss to his silky hair, “I’m right here, love. You started dreaming, but you’re all right; no harm done.”

John groaned and arched his back, splaying his hand against Sherlock’s chest as he mumbled, “M’sorry.”

The detective smiled and shook his head, “No, no, darling. No reason to be sorry. You’ve just got an early start on the day, that’s all.”

“Hmmm,” John replied, his sleep-warmed lips pressing against Sherlock’s pectoral muscles causing the detective to hum happily. Sherlock felt him blink against his skin a few times more before speaking again, “Is Evelyn up yet?”

Sherlock tilted his head and paused for a moment of silence while listening for any signs of life in the adjacent room. “Doesn’t seem so.”

“M’kay,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s chest. His breath tickled the detective’s sensitive skin and he sniggered. “How long are we staying here, Sherlock?”

The detective pursed his lips, “Missing Baker Street already?”

John shrugged against him, “It’s only been a couple weeks. It’s not that I can’t last a little longer, I was just curious. I miss being home.”

Sherlock frowned and hugged John closer to his torso, “I know, love. Mycroft hasn’t seen anything on his radar and neither have I seen anything on mine. Perhaps Williams was wrong, but I don’t want either of you getting hurt on the off chance that he isn’t.”

John grumbled, “I know. We’re in a beautiful town and we should really be enjoying it instead of sulking.” He took a deep breath and lifted his face to see Sherlock’s and he smiled, “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Sherlock bent down and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before leaning back on his pillow and smiling, “I was dreaming of that incident when Evelyn was four and you let her sleep on the cab ride home from the park.”

John furrowed his brow as he dug through his memories before he chuckled against Sherlock’s skin, “You mean the time when she fell asleep standing up?”

Sherlock hummed the affirmative and John laughed, hugging Sherlock’s torso tighter, “She’s definitely a character, that’s for sure. No one will ever accuse her of being boring.”

Sherlock cringed, “I should hope not. I’m not sure there’s a more sinister insult.”

John rolled his eyes and smiled, “You’re cute when you’re irritated.”

Sherlock smirked, “Then I must be positively _adorable_ at crime scenes Anderson’s assigned to.”

The doctor laughed heartily and the sound was music in the air of their rented room. Sherlock warmed at John’s laughter and his hand tightened on John’s arm possessively. John hummed and looked down, “How’s the ankle?”

Sherlock pressed on his shoulder and John sat up, Sherlock soon following suit and they both watched his right foot flex and extend as he rolled the joint. He bared his teeth for a second, but quickly regained his composure. He shifted his pajama-clad legs to the side of the bed and he gingerly applied weight to both feet as he stood and raised his arms in an attempt to keep his balance and took a step forward. His right foot pressed down against the ground and as he lifted his left foot, he hummed in discomfort, but was able to walk forward without his legs buckling beneath him. He turned and smiled at the man still in the bed.

John crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, “Well at least you can walk. You might still want to be a little careful for the next week, though, just in case.”

Sherlock nodded and plucked his house robe from behind the door, wrapping it around himself before walking out into the kitchenette that separated the two rooms. “Tea, John?”

John followed suit and quirked an eyebrow at the taller man, “Are you seriously offering to make tea?”

Sherlock flopped on the seat at the table and smirked, “No, but now you’re in the kitchen so you may do the honors.”

John shook his head and smiled as he flipped on the kettle and leaned against the table next to Sherlock’s seat. He ran a hand through the curls and the detective leaned into his hand like an attention-starved kitten. The doctor twirled the locks in his fingers and smiled as Sherlock hummed happily from his ministrations.

John turned his head as the shuffle of sleepy feet padded against the stone floors and long golden locks flowed into the kitchenette, finding a seat next to Sherlock and resting on her folded arms on the table. Golden curls cascaded over her shoulders and made their way onto the table, spilling over the edge as she sighed.

“Morning, Evelyn,” John said cheerfully as he pulled his hand from Sherlock’s curls and caressed the side of his face instead. “Sleep well?”

Evelyn groaned face down and flicked up a pointer finger, “Tea first, then conversation.”

John rolled his eyes as the old fashioned kettle began to whistle and he poured three cups of tea, placing them in front of their respective owners before sipping at his own cup.

Evelyn lifted her head and blew on her cup, the steam swirling before her sleep-deprived navy eyes and Sherlock quirked his brow, “Were you up late last night, Evelyn? You look terrible.”

The young woman shrugged and blew on her tea before sipping the hot liquid, “Wow, _thanks_ , Dad. I just had really weird dreams and when I woke up I kept hearing strange noises. I’m fine; I’m just tired.”

John rounded the table and ruffled her hair, pressing a kiss to her crown before walking over to the pantry to pull out the bread and stick a few slices into the toaster. “Anyone have any plans for the day?”

Evelyn seemed to brighten and she smiled, “When I went into town yesterday I heard about this really creepy town a little over. It’s called Bradenbuck and there are apparently ghosts that live in the old earl’s house and the forest behind it. I really want to go check it out.”

John leaned his hip against the counter and smirked, “Aren’t you a little old for ghost stories?”

Evelyn sighed and tilted her head, “Oh come on, I think it’d be fun! I’m getting cabin fever here. If we can’t go home, let’s go do something _exciting_.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose and glanced at his daughter, “Ghosts are just figments of infantile imaginations to explain common misconceptions of things going bump in the night. What’s so interesting about them?”

Evelyn waved flippantly, “I don’t just want to see the ghosts, Dad; I want to see the castle and the forest. The locals say that if you’re brave enough to venture into them, Bradenbuck has the most _beautiful_ woodlands and that the hills sing when the sun hits them in the morning.”

John plucked up the pieces of toast and placed them on a plate in the middle of the table, finally taking his seat opposite Sherlock. “Well if we’re going ghost hunting I suppose you both need to eat.” He narrowed his eyes at the man eying the toast disdainfully, “Especially you, Sherlock. You’re still healing and it’s too early to argue.”

Sherlock groaned and plucked a piece of toast from the plate, chewing cheekily as he stared at John from across the table. John smirked and picked up his own piece, crunching on it happily as he met Sherlock’s gaze and then glanced out of the kitchen window and into the rising sun.

Evelyn suddenly jumped up and back into her room, returning with a hairbrush and two hairbands. She sat down on the floor in front of John and the doctor chuckled, wiping his hands on his napkin before turning to the side and plucking the supplies from her hands and placing them on the table. “You’re certainly a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

Evelyn tutted him from below, and wagged a finger at him. “Not ‘bossy’, Daddy; that’s a negative connotation that you’re bred to tell me since I’m a girl. I’m not ‘bossy’, I have leadership skills.”

John rolled his eyes and muttered an “excuse me” before he caught the two hairbands in his teeth and he began to brush Evelyn’s hair straight back. The golden curls straightened and bounced back against his hands and he mumbled through his teeth, “Side or middle?”

Evelyn hummed as she contemplated, “Side.”

John dragged his pointed finger straight down the left side of her head and straightened her part, brushing the sides of her hair flat before twisting them into French braids down her scalp.

Sherlock smiled as he watched the two Watsons and he sighed cheerfully. John wrapped the hairbands at the ends of the braids and patted her shoulder, “You’re done, love. Are they too tight?”

She stood and lolled her head to either side, smiling, “Nope! I’m getting dressed.” She turned to retreat back into her room before popping her head back out and addressing her fathers, “Wear clothes you can get dirty in, it’s a long way out there!”


	24. Double Dare

“Absolutely not, John. I will _not_ climb on top of that… that _beast_.”

Sherlock shook his head and the dark curls bounced in every direction as he stood firm in his spot and crossed his arms.

John laughed and shifted on his hip, “Sherlock, you can’t possibly tell me that you have lived _this_ long without riding a _horse_.”

Sherlock scowled and pouted his lip out, “Don’t be dull, John. Of course I’ve been on one!”

“Then why are you being so prissy about it?” John retorted, cocking an eyebrow.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned, “My ankle hurts.”

John lifted his brow skeptically, “No it doesn’t. You’ve walked all the way down that hill and didn’t complain. Try again.”

“I’m allergic.”

John hummed in disagreement while shaking his head, “Oh come on, that’s piss poor, even for you. One more go.”

“I’m mentally scarred by my childhood experiences with them.”

An aborted sound escaped John’s lips as he tilted his head and thought about it, “Ah- that might actually be plausible, but I’m still calling bollocks.”

Sherlock groaned and waved his hands at his legs, “You already have me in these deplorable _jeans_ , John, what more could you possibly want?”

John laughed and eyed him up, “Stop whining, you look good in them.” He sauntered up to the detective and wrapped his fingers in the belt loops as he purred quietly in his ear, “And as much as I like you in them, Sherlock, I want to take them off of you even more.”

Sherlock flushed and the doctor laughed, pressing his lips to the curve of Sherlock’s ear and nipping his earlobe. Heat pooled in Sherlock’s belly and he turned his head to catch John’s lips in a kiss before John pulled away and patted his shirt down. “Besides, they said horseback is the only way to get into the town unless you want to walk. Apparently the locals like carts and buggies.”

Sherlock puffed out his cheeks and sighed sarcastically, “That’s terribly comforting.”

Evelyn seemed to appear from nowhere and tugged on John’s arm, “Come on! We’ll never get there if we don’t leave soon!”

The doctor smiled and let her drag him to the mouth of the stable where the horse keeper met them with a cheery smile. Sherlock brooded as he followed with frustrated steps, but his demeanor had no effect on their host. The plump woman tilted her head in greeting, frazzled gray hair spilling before her eyes, and waved a hand to the three horses she had pulled from their stalls.

“Righto then! If you follow that trail over there, you’ll find Bradenbuck in the half-hour. They’ll need to be back by dark tomorrow, Mr. Watson.” She ran a hand through her hair, pulling strands back behind her wide ears. “Can’t imagine you not being back a’ fore nightfall though; not much to do in that little ole’ town anyways.”

Evelyn beamed as she fit her left foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up straight in the saddle, “Thank you, ma’am! Oh, I’m so excited! I’ve missed riding horses at Grammy Holmes’ house!”

The horse keeper smiled and wrung her hands together, “She’s a sweetheart. A little feisty, but she’ll give you a good ride. Her name’s Penelope.”

She rubbed tenderly at the horse’s neck and she in kind whinnied her appreciation for the kind touch. Evelyn giggled and mumbled, “My, Ms. Penelope, aren’t you a beautiful girl? I bet all the stallions are after you!”

John hummed happily as he glanced at the still stewing Sherlock who was eying his assigned steed with contempt, “Don’t panic, Sherlock.” He sneered, “They can smell _fear_.”

Sherlock bristled and narrowed his eyes at the doctor, “I’ve stared down barrels of guns and looked serial murderers in the eye, John; I’m not _afraid_ of this… creature.”

John shifted on his hip and smirked, “Well, go on then. Prove it.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Sherlock pinned John with his gaze and then sauntered up to his assigned steed and raised a hand warily for him to acquaint himself with Sherlock’s scent.

“That’s Marius,” the woman interjected softly. “He’s got a bit of a temper on him, but he’ll behave if you just show him who’s boss.”

Sherlock caught John’s impish grin and scowled, “Lovely.”

He winced as he placed all of his weight on his right foot as he lifted his left into the stirrup and took a deep, slightly shaky breath before hauling himself up onto the massive beast. His body language was stiff and unnatural, but he righted himself on the saddle before exhaling an irritated sigh as he caught John’s smirk in the corner of his eye.

“See, John? Erm, this creature and I are going to get along just swimmingly, aren’t we?” He questioned as he peered around the creature’s neck and smiled half-heartedly.

“Oh I’m very proud of you, making friends on your first day!” John teased, still on the ground and looking up at Sherlock whose horse began to move forward on his own volition.

Sherlock seemed flustered as he began to pass John and he bent his knees in tight around the creature nervously as he pulled back on the reigns, “Erm, whoa. Whoa. Stay. Stop? Halt! Heel! Oh. Oh dear.”

He jerked back on the reigns and the horse, already spooked by Sherlock’s nerves, took it as a sign of aggression and he screamed out of the stable. Sherlock’s eyes blew wide and his face blanched as the beast underneath him flew into the round pin and began to buck; the detective’s long arms wrapping around the horse’s neck to keep his place but only agitating the animal more. “ _John_! John, _do_ something!” He pleaded.

“Sherlock!” John hollered as the horse keeper screamed past him and into the round pin, holding her hands up and making various noises at the beast. Sherlock’s grip on him only made him more agitated and the horse reared up violently, the vigor flinging the detective through the air with a throaty holler and a few meters away onto the ground. The force of all of his own weight against him knocked the breath from his lungs as he rolled onto his side and staggered wobbly to his feet, hair insane and eyes dilated in apprehension.

After Sherlock’s less than graceful dismount, the horse immediately calmed and the horse keeper had no issues pull the reigns forward and leading the beast back into his stall while John hurried past her and to his husband’s aid.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, are you hurt?” He fussed as he checked Sherlock up and down for sprains or cracked bones, but found nothing amiss besides Sherlock’s ungainly swallowing of air.

“I’m- I’m fine, John. Con-contemptible beast,” he hissed as he hunched forward in an attempt to regain his breath.

John chuckled and shifted on his hip, satisfied at Sherlock’s clean bill of health, “Not a horse-whisperer, I see?”

The detective only lifted an irritated eyebrow and glared at John while Evelyn, quite trained in the art of riding by her Uncle Mycroft, galloped to them, stopping her horse a meter from her fathers and jumping down; holding the reigns in one hand while exposing the other hand to Sherlock. At first her face was of pure concern, but as she noticed Sherlock’s fitness, she began to laugh and retracted her hand. “ _That_ was graceful.”

She ran a hand down her braid and played with the tip with her fingertips as Sherlock straightened himself and scowled, “Yes, well, animals are intimidated by those with superior intellect.”

Evelyn scoffed and shifted on her hip, “Oh, I’m sure that’s what it is.”

John crept around Sherlock’s back and patted down his clothes free of grass and dirt before hugging him from behind and kissing the back of his neck, “I guess we’ll just have to improvise.”

Sherlock swiveled around, cocked his brow at the roguish grin and his stomach dropped.

 

***

 

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I am not making fun of you.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Sherlock, I am not laughing at you.”

“Yes you are.”

“I am not! Now stop sulking and hold on before I knock you off the back of Bessie!”

Sherlock scowled as he nestled his nose into John’s shoulder and bit him sourly on his trapezius muscles. John yelped and kicked out, the horse automatically going into a trot that nearly bounced the detective off the back end.

“See what you did? Now stop it!” John chided as he regained a normal speed and glared half-heartedly at his husband who was sulking behind him. “I’m gonna make you walk if you don’t behave yourself.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John; you wouldn’t leave me out here.”

“Is that a challenge? Because right now it’s a rather enticing proposition.”

“It’s not a challenge; it’s an indisputable fact.”

“Oh yeah, let’s find out shall-”

“Boys, play nice!”

Evelyn cantered up to them and gave them both reprimanding looks, “Do you think it would kill you to cooperate until we get over that hill?”

“John started it,” Sherlock mumbled, pouting like a petulant child.

John seemed affronted at the accusation and nearly spun around on the thick blanket as both would not fit on a saddle, “I did _not_ , you wanker!”

Evelyn groaned and slung her head back, missing her hair falling dramatically in her face, “Oh my _God_ , I don’t care _who_ started it; I’m ending it!”

John opened his mouth in order to reprimand her sass but his mouth shut as she urged her horse to fly before them and over the hill; farther than John wanted her to be away from them at the current moment. He chewed on his lip and patted Sherlock’s hand on his waist.

“Hold on, Sherlock.”

He felt arms grip painfully tight around his middle and he prodded the horse forward, following where he watched his daughter head, but his stomach clenched nervously when he couldn’t find her.

“Sherlock,” He mumbled and the taller man could feel John’s hairs prickle on the back of his neck. “Do you see her?”

Sherlock hummed as his eyes gazed over the grassy knolls until he found the blonde head he was looking for. He pointed down the side of the hill where it met with the country town and patted John’s chest. “She’s right there, love. Stop worrying so much.”

“I’m not worrying,” he lied as he turned Bessie’s head to the side and she headed towards the girl stroking her horse’s neck affectionately as she waited for the two men. “I’m just being vigilant.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally as he kissed the spot he had nibbled on John’s neck, “Yes and when I deduce people, I’m merely _looking_ at them.”

John huffed and shook his head, “Sod off. It’s not like I’m doing it without probable cause. You jinxed her you know. It’s really all your fault.”

Sherlock shrugged as John trotted down the hill and near their daughter who was smiling from ear to ear as she pointed at the old-fashioned structures in the distance. “Look! Those buildings are so antiquated and gorgeous! _Look_!”

John chuckled as he caught her eye, “Yes, darling, I see it.” He was oddly reminded of a very similar conversation when he had shown a considerably smaller Evelyn the beauties of his parents’ home in Bibury; long vacated of Watsons and now refilled with Tully’s or Murphy’s or something to that effect that he couldn’t be bothered by remembering.

“Come on!” She urged as she pulled away from the two men again and trotted down the path into the town, enthusiasm making every step glow as John followed her.

 

***

 

“They’re not very friendly people, are they?” Evelyn murmured as they click-clacked down the singular paved road in the middle of the town. There had been no markets, no groups of children playing in the streets; nothing that would constitute life in the sleepy town besides the shadows of locals in their windows. Speaking of windows, Evelyn was sure that she had seen several people slam theirs shut as soon as the three of them had ambled past, sending a sickly feeling into her stomach.

“Not particularly, no,” Sherlock added as he peered around John’s shoulder. The silver-green eyes narrowed as he focused on a sign in the distance. He lifted an arm and directed John’s gaze to a sign down the cobblestone street. “Looks like an inn. Perhaps we can get a room and a little more information on this place since the population here is not really the… charming sort.”

Evelyn sniggered as she clopped up in front of them and rounded around the humble looking inn. Indeed the town was beautiful; cobblestone ways, vine growing vibrantly and exquisite on every surface, but the desolate atmosphere still sent a chill through her spine.

She hopped down from her steed and carefully tied her to a post as she turned her eyes around her surroundings. The inn itself was quaint; no bigger than twice the size of their flat at Baker Street, and about as aged.

“Well I can’t imagine them not welcoming strangers at an inn,” she mumbled as John slid off of Bessie and extended a hand to the detective who sniffed at it like a petulant child and gracefully slipped off the animal without another gesture; walking towards Evelyn and leaving the doctor to tie up the animal.

“A social experiment, then?” Sherlock offered nonchalantly as he shifted past the young woman and pressed the heavy wooden door open.

A dining area and bar was the sight that first greeted him and he suddenly felt like he was in boarding school all over again as every eye in the establishment turned and focused on him. He turned his head side to side and was stunned at the seemingly endless pairs of startled eyes that drank in his appearance. His eyebrow quirked in an unspoken challenge before he felt a familiar pressure from behind him.

Evelyn bustled past him and was caught under the same scrutinizing stare, stilling against the tall detective. She raised a hand awkwardly and waved, clearing her throat before an uncomfortable greeting fell out, “Erm, hi there. Beautiful day, yeah?”

Pair by pair, the eyes began to turn away from them and back to their respective areas leaving Evelyn’s spine still prickling and her stomach uneasy. She leaned up and back and caught Sherlock’s ear, “This place is getting weirder every minute.”

He thinned his lips as John joined his side, “Indubitably.”

The doctor was not nearly as unlucky with the locals and found a table towards the edge of the room where a kindly waitress attended them. Her voice was soft and sweet, but with a southern twang that interested Evelyn. She committed it to memory so that she could perhaps use it in future cases as the waitress introduced herself.

Auburn bangs bounced as she tilted her head and smiled warily, “Hello there, I’m Maggie; it’s nice to see some new faces around here! Where are you lot from?”

John smiled and nodded politely at her, “We’re from London, just stopping by. It’s a beautiful town you have here.”

The waitress blushed as if the compliment had been directly specifically at her, “Yes, yes it is, isn’t it?” She flitted around with a notepad in her hand, “It’s sleepy, and we don’t get many visitors, but people around here don’t like them anyways,” she teased.

She began to prattle on about the quaint magnificence of the town that John and Evelyn seemed to honestly be enjoying before Sherlock’s dark voice, saved specifically for deductions and interrogations, cut into her monologue. “Your face,” he lifted a finger and pointed at a thin line of silver scarring that slipped from her forehead down to her flushed cheek, “you’ve been marked. Why? Every woman in this establishment has procured the same scar. Why is that?”

“Sherlock,” John warned sourly as he flushed with embarrassment on behalf of the young lady before them. _Only Sherlock would be so crass._ He shook his head and looked sorrowfully at her, “I’m sorry; I really can’t take him anywhere.”

Maggie didn’t seem affronted in the slightly and merely traced a slender finger down the pale scar on her face. “Oh, it’s fine,” she mumbled. She waved her hand flippantly towards the meager crowd of people. “I bet it does look rather odd.”

Evelyn turned and checked the face of every soul in the establishment and surely enough, her father was right. All of the men were vacant of any mutilation, but every woman had a clear, straight mark down from mid-forehead to mid-cheek on their left side. She pursed her lips as she tried to fathom what could possibly bring that about.

“No religion I know of requires such a disfigurement, so why?” Sherlock added before John shot him a stern glare and the detective clapped his mouth shut with a small pout.

She laughed lightly and shifted on her hip, “Oh no, we’re not religious. Except that man,” she pointed to a man obviously adorned in a Father’s suit and neck clip, “he’s the town’s Father.” She smiled, straight teeth pretty in her mouth, “Nope, this is nothing like that. It’s actually a rather silly story, but by the time we’re old enough to hear it, the damage has already been done.”

Evelyn frowned as she looked up to Maggie from her seat, “There’s three generations here: all identical. I mean I’m definitely the youngest by a few years, but either way. What did this town _do_ to you all?”

Maggie chuckled as she turned around and waved to another waitress who nodded in compliance. She gestured to the remaining seat next to Evelyn and grinned, “Mind if I take a seat?”

Evelyn shook her head and the red-head plucked the seat from the table and pulled it between her thighs, arms resting on the back of it in front of her. “You’ve heard about out haunted castle, yeah?”

Evelyn nodded and smiled, “Yes, that’s actually why we’re here. We wanted to come check it-”

“No!” Maggie suddenly interrupted, a hand violently gripping Evelyn’s forearm, “ _You_ can’t,” she said pointedly to the blonde girl. She gestured a nod to the two men sitting opposite the table and frowned, “They can, but love, you really can’t.”

Evelyn ruffled and jerked her hand back to herself, “And just why not?”

Maggie shook her head, “Let me explain.” She waved towards the door and probably in the direction of the small castle, “You’ve heard of the castle, but do you know anything about what happened behind the stone walls?”

John glanced at Sherlock who only furrowed his brow at the red-head before them, no doubt pulling apart her history and exactly what kind of soap she uses. The doctor shook his head and chewed his cheek, “Can’t say that we do.”

Maggie stiffened in her chair and caught his navy eyes, pinning him in place. “The castle is small, but it’s dangerous,” she warned, her voice darkening with her lower volume, “Back at the turn of the sixteenth century, the Earl of this area, Earl Hoyle, lived there. He was a terrible, terrible man.” She shivered as if the memory actually pained her, “He began to accuse beautiful young women of witchcraft and he would take them into the castle to ‘cure them’.”

Evelyn’s stomach churned and she knew where the story was headed before Maggie opened up her mouth again. “He did terrible, terrible things to those young ladies and when he was done with them, he would bury them in the forest beyond the castle walls. Their souls still wander the woods and you can hear them crying out at night.”

“That’s nonsense,” Sherlock interjected, waving a hand flippantly. “Wind and pressure changes make the noises you hear; nothing more.”

Maggie seemed to prickle and her emerald eyes suddenly pierced the detective hostilely, “Mind your tongue when you speak of the dead.”

Automatically one to relieve tension, John held out a hand cautiously, “If you just ignore him, you’ll live longer.” She seemed to soften at his words so he pressed on, “Now that still doesn’t explain why you all have these cuts.”

She wrapped her arms around the back of the chair and leaned her freckled cheek on the top of the wood, “Well when the townspeople caught wind of what was actually happening, they- well- they took care of him is a very gruesome manner,” she finished with a disgusted crinkle of her nose. She shrugged as she continued, “Either way, the phantom still lurks in the halls of the castle and every once in a while, he’ll travel into the town to pick one of the girls to take back with him.” She lifted a finger to her scar, “He’ll only take the most beautiful, perfect, unmarked girls, so for centuries every girl born in the town has been christened with one of these to protect her.”

“Superstition,” Sherlock murmured before he received a sharp heel to his toes from the man beside him.

Maggie seemed to brush him off and looked back at Evelyn sternly, “We just had an incident with the most frequent wave of tourists last week. A little girl, not much older than you went missing right as soon as she got here.” She shrugged, “No signs of a broken entry or a fight; the girl just vanished into thin air.”

Evelyn scowled and waved a hand, “Did you think to- I don’t know- call the police and file a report?”

Maggie bristled and her voice grew dark, “We did, but what’s the point? Once he has you, you’re gone for good.”

Evelyn pouted and crossed her arms, “Bollocks. So you’re saying because I’m a girl and because I don’t have a bloody cut on my face, I’m gonna get kidnapped by an apparition? Sounds a little far-fetched to me.”

The freckled face frowned sourly and she grabbed the pale arm nearest her, “Love, I’m not taking the piss. You _can’t_ go to the castle. Ask your folks to take pictures; you’ll be a lot safer.”

John groaned and rested his head against the cool of the wood table sighing. _Well, if she hadn’t been insistent on going before,_ he thought, _she sure as hell is NOW_.

Evelyn suddenly smiled the same I’ve-run-out-of-patience-for-your-incompetence smile that Sherlock donned at particularly irritating crime scenes and fluttered her eyelashes, steepling her fingers underneath her chin. “Well I’m sure this town has _so much_ to offer. What could an innocent, delicate flower such as myself be find to keep herself entertained?”

Maggie suddenly brightened and began to rattle off little shops and small town wonders while Evelyn seethed in her seat silently and politely. John hopped up somewhere in the middle of the conversation and booked a room, unfortunately only a double-bed single room was vacant, and two stables out back before shoving the keys in his pocket and returning to the table to rest a warm palm on Evelyn’s heated shoulder.

“You father and I should probably get to the castle if we’re going to see it before nightfall,” he teased as he felt his daughter prickle beneath his hand. “Why don’t you be a good little daughter and come walk us outside.”

John snickered to himself as he heard a haughty “of course” grit out of clenched teeth.

They politely said their goodbyes before Evelyn stormed out of the inn and towards her pony, fuming, “Ignorant, vacuous, superstitious plebeians! How could they possibly believe in something so dull, so infantile, so- ugh!”

John padded next to her and smiled, “Well I can see that your manners haven’t improved.”

Steam rose from her and she pumped her fists at the ground, irately, “I’m just so-! I swear, one day I’m just gonna-! I just-!”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as he set his chin on the top of John’s short, coarse gray hair and looked down at her with sharp cerulean eyes, “Exceptionally eloquent, dear. I’m sure you’ve made your point quite vividly.”

“Oh, shut up!” She barked, furrowing her brow and bouncing on her toes in frustration.

John pointed at her feet and chuckled, “Cute little dance you’ve got there. Gonna pirouette for us?”

Her navy eyes narrowed at the man in the soft blue T-shirt and jeans and she scowled, “You are positively insufferable.”

The doctor plucked a braid and smiled, “Come on, little bird. We all know that you’re going to go with or without the town’s blessing, so we might as well make good time.”

Evelyn stopped her ministrations and turned sharply to Penelope, before sighing and pulling herself up on her strong back and straightening herself out, “Yes well, let’s be off, shall we?”

 

***

 

After a considerable amount of struggling and finding that the horses refused to go anywhere past the inn and in the direction of the castle, the trio decided to hold them up in the stall and wall the short distance to the stony building instead.

“Creepy town, animals panicking; this sounds like the beginning of a really bad horror film,” Evelyn murmured under her breath as she picked at her right braid that was slightly thicker than her left.

John smirked and chanced a glance at his husband. The tall detective’s lips pinched tight as he was apparently trying his best to conceal the minute gimp in his right ankle and John wordlessly wrapped an arm around him to support some of his weight as they traversed up the last bit of hill.

“I don’t need your help,” Sherlock protested half-heartedly as he rested more weight on John’s aged, yet sturdy shoulders.

John rolled his eyes and smiled, “You wonder where she gets that bit from.”

Evelyn suddenly squealed and John watched her braids bounce as she bounded the last stretch and ran up to the stony structure. As far as castles went, Earl Hoyle’s was a little on the small and lackluster side. Although excited, Evelyn eyed it up before stepping close enough to rest her hand on the stone. The building style itself was rather common for the time period and it reminded of her of the pictures she’d seen in the travel guide on the train ride down of the Bodiam Castle in East Sussex. The four corners were punctuated with turrets and back in the day, she imagined that it would have had a brilliant defense, being on the top of the hill and with such a strong vantage point. She rubbed a palm over the coarse material and inhaled the scent of hundreds of years of wear and tear; her mind’s eye imagining the fights over the territory and how the walls would have reacted to the plague.

Suddenly her mind saw the darkness that the waitress had been speaking of. It would be incredibly easy to hide young women in these walls of stone and she cringed to think of the fate the unfortunate souls had met. She mentally shook off the shiver down her spine and leaned her back against the wall to watch the two aging men amble slowly towards her.

“You two are slow as molasses uphill in winter,” she commented snidely, yet playfully as she crossed her arms over her chest, the granite digging into her shoulder blades.

Sherlock waved a hand flippantly at her and scowled, “Inconvenient transport.”

She smiled and twirled a brain between her fingertips, “Come on, you old, grumpy men! Look how much we still have to explore!”

John scoffed and shook his head, “You don’t really have any respect for the elderly, do you?”

Sherlock’s affronted expression nearly caused his husband to drop in laughter, “For God’s sakes, John! I am not _elderly_!” Spitting the last word as if it actually pained him to do so.

Bell-toned laughed filled the air as Evelyn shook her head and headed towards the doorway, the wooden doors of which had long ago decayed and left a gaping hole in the framework. She stepped into an open courtyard and she flitted around, examining and memorizing every crevice and curvature of the stones.

She hummed as she darted about and the two men just watched in awe of her energy for such a decrepit building. John hummed happily as he leaned back against Sherlock’s chest, “At least she won’t be thinking of home for a while. She’ll be too busy cataloguing all the different types of rock here!”

Sherlock hummed ascent and gripped John’s elbow, “We’ll be headed home soon, I feel. Mycroft hasn’t been able to find anything on Moran and as I’ve said, he should be dead.”

John seemed to scowl slightly as he puffed out his cheeks, “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

The detective shrugged as Evelyn called them towards a door she could push open and into the actual building, “Come _on_!  Look at the beautiful arch work, the archaic stone with thousands of stories to tell!”

She stepped over the threshold of the doorway and fluttered down the hallway, her fathers trailing not far behind. She climbed up a curved stairway and bolted to a gap in the stones that resembled a window, peering out on the stunning landscape that surrounded them. She sighed happily and leaned against the window, “How nice would it be to live in a castle?”

John stifled a laugh, but the words still came out, “Last time I was in a castle, that nutter was in nothing but a _sheet_. In _The Palace_ nonetheless!”

Evelyn gaped at the taller man and he shrugged, “They kidnapped me from my bed. I decided that they should suffer as much as I did.”

Evelyn scoffed and waved a hand, “Who in their right mind goes to the palace in a _sheet,_ Dad?”

His sharp eyes narrowed mischievously and he grinned, “Who indeed.”

She rolled her eyes at him and pattered down the hall, fingertips tracing the whimsical lines in the stone.

_Limestone. Flint. Years of hands running down and smoothing its surface._

She turned the corner and began to hum senselessly as she examined every crack in the stone and imagining regal gowns and armor clattering down the halls. Her Uncle Mycroft had taught her how to fence, her smaller frame and youth making it easier for her to dodge his experienced strikes, but she had always longed to own a broadsword. If nothing else, just to have a piece of history would be reason enough for her to own one, but she would have been kidding herself if she said she didn’t want to wield one.

She spun around and pinned Sherlock with navy eyes, “Do you know how to sword fight, Dad?”

His lips curled at the corner but he kept a stoic face, “I thought we established the bounds of my knowledge the _last_ time you questioned me.”

Evelyn scowled at the memory and the bet that ended with her having to say “My Dad Knows More Than Me” out loud and in the presence of _people_.

She rolled her eyes and pouted out her bottom lip, “You’re no fun-”

Suddenly a strangled noise caught in her throat as her ears began to buzz, droning out everything in her brain besides its incessant humming. She clapped her hands over her ears and cringed back against the stone door, the granite scratching through her thin shirt and clawing into her muscles as she slid down, her knees coming up to her chest.

“What- what is that _noise_?!” She questioned, probably too loudly as she couldn’t quite hear herself.

She was vaguely aware of warm hands suddenly pressing at her cheeks and a thin wrist testing the heat at her forehead.

“Evelyn, what noise? There is no noise,” Sherlock soothed as he removed his wrist from her skin and started snapping his fingers around her head. “Can you hear this?”

She nodded mutely and cringed as the noise in her head began to whine, buzzing in her skull, “Can’t you hear it?” She clamped her eyes closed and pressed her hands farther on her ears, “It- it’s everywhere!”

“What does it sound like, sweetheart?” John prompted as he began to test her for influenza and meningitis and checked her eyes for concussion. “Does it sound like ringing? Humming?”

She stammered as she focused on the irritating sound in her skull, “B-buzzing. N-not tinnitus, Daddy.” She pressed her fingers in her ears and the noise dulled slightly, only coming back in full force when she removed them. “It’s not inside my head; it’s outside. Can’t you hear it at _all_?”

Sherlock and John exchanged concerned glances and John lifted her chin to have her meet his gaze, “Darling, there is no sound. Relax, okay? Do you feel dizzy?”

Her eyes pinched at the corners but she met his eyes and shook her head, “I can’t think. It’s just so _loud_.” She cocked an irritated brow at Sherlock and scowled, “No, Dad, I’m not losing my mind.”

Sherlock’s expression softened and he rubbed a thumb tenderly on her cheek, “I didn’t say you were, love. But you have to admit, hearing things that aren’t there is a little unsettling.”

“You should talk,” she snapped. She raised a hand and gripped John’s a tad too firmly, “G-get me up. I want to go back. M-my head’s starting to hurt.”

John’s muscular arm tugged at her, pulling her entire weight from the ground with a single fluid motion, wrapping and arm around her as she pressed her head to his chest. “Daddy, it’s so loud,” she mumbled into John’s T-shirt and he felt a twinge of sympathy run through his body.

He rubbed up on her shoulder and herded her back down the stairway, “You’re all right, love. You’re gonna be all right.”

 

***

 

“You don’t have a fever, little lark,” Sherlock cooed as he sat on the side of her bed, his face pinched in concern.

Evelyn tossed in the bed and suffocated herself with a pillow, her words muffled in the fabric, “That’s because. I’m. Not. _Ill._ ” She groaned as the ringing in her head continued far less shrill and definitely not nearly as loud, but still persistent and obnoxious.

John perched on the other side of the duvet and chewed his lip, “If you don’t feel better tomorrow, we’ll take you to a hospital.”

She groaned and pulled the pillow tighter on her face, nearly making her incomprehensible, “I. Am. Not. Ill! I feel _fine_! I’m not hearing something in my head, Daddy! It’s external stimuli!”

The doctor winced and lifted the pillow gently to kiss her cheek, “Try and go to sleep, love. The noise might go away then.”

Another irritated moan and Evelyn rolled over on her stomach, her hands freeing the pillow and instead clasping over her ears, “You are being so obtuse! _Listen!_ It’s as loud as a bloody freight train!”

John hummed in frustration and rubbed nonsensical circles on her back until the tension in her shoulders dissipated and light snores were muffled underneath the soft pillow.

“What’s wrong with her?” Sherlock queried, his normal steady tone slightly askew.

John pulled the cover up over her broad shoulders before rubbing nervously at his neck, “I don’t know. She actually thinks she’s hearing something.” He chewed on his cheek and shrugged, “Maybe it’s just being away from home so long. She’s been under a lot of stress, you know.”

Sherlock pet a hand over the part still vibrant in her hair where she hadn’t taken out the French braids yet, “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

 

***

 

Sherlock turned the page of his book quietly with the tip of his left index finger as he right hand cards through the sandy-silver hair of the unconscious man next to him. He hummed quietly as he read through facts he mostly knew, but some bits were new information. _Profiling the Average American Man: Sexual Tendencies of the Free_ : a book Evelyn picked up more as a gag Christmas gift for him last year, but he had actually found it rather entertaining. A fair amount of the information he had found to be either incorrect or skewed, but still, the writing was sufficiently interesting enough to keep his attention when he had no experiments to occupy his mind.

He heard the form in the bed next to him shift and he sighed, seeing the girl turn over and sit up straight on the mattress out of the corner of his eye, “Are you feeling any better?”

An unnatural silence greeted him and his stomach turned cold so he turned and his eyes landed on her face. Her normally rosy cheeks were blanched of all color and her eyes stared straight across the room, but didn’t seem to focus on anything, instead just glaring, unseeing at the wall. He cocked his head and removed the thin spectacles from the bridge of his nose, his voice soft and careful as he spoke, “Evelyn, love, are you all right?”

Still, no response. The young woman began to pull the bedding away from her and her feet slid flat against the floor, he pajama pants shifting against the fabric before she began pushing herself up and towards the small mirror in the bathroom. She then began plucking the hair ties from her braids and running her fingers through her golden locks, bent and crooked from being twisted so long.

Sherlock slid off the bed and padded over to her awake, yet unaware body and waved a hand in front of sightless eyes, “Darling? Can you hear me?”

The detective was nearly knocked out of the way as she paced past him and picked a jacket from her bag and bent forward to slip on shoes without tying the laces. Sherlock planted himself firmly in her path and grabbed her shoulders, “Evelyn, I’m speaking to you. Answer me.”

The young woman blinked, far too slow for Sherlock’s tastes and her navy eyes stared blankly at his Adam’s apple until he lowered his head to her level. “Evelyn?” The pupils showed no sign of concussion, but how was he to be sure? He needed to wake up John.

He only then realized that she was mumbling beneath her breath, “ _Animal War Memorial… Hyde Park… David Backhouse… Six-point-zero-two-two-one-four-one-three-ee-to-the-twenty-third…”_

He crinkled his nose as he read her lips, “You’re reciting… nonsense? Have you gone mad?”

He was then again thrust back as Evelyn’s sturdy form ambled past him and towards the door.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Sherlock murmured as he grabbed her shoulders and turned her back around towards the beds and pressed on her back, “Go on, go back to bed and sort out your brain. You’re acting fool-”

Suddenly red claimed his vision as a fist connected with his cheek and in his astonishment, he fell backwards and away from the doorway, clutching his throbbing cheekbone. “Evelyn! What on earth are you-?”

Whatever words Sherlock meant to say never escaped his mouth as small knuckles knocked once beneath and once between his ribs and his ability to breathe vanished. He swallowed gulps of air, hoping that some would make its way into his lungs but to no avail. He raised his eyes to find Evelyn’s stare directed towards the door as if she hadn’t realized a man lie asphyxiating on the ground. The young woman continued to the door and pried it open, sliding out of it without another word.

“ _Evelyn_ ,” Sherlock gasped. His hand slayed out on the ground, searching for anything that could wake John and save his burning lungs. His palm dropped on something spokey? _Hairbrush!_ His elegant fingers gripped the forgotten brush and lifted it above his head.

He tossed.

He had always been a rather shoddy pitcher with his left hand. The brush flew straight across the room and into the wall past John, making a small plush noise as the bristles hit the wallpaper.

“John…” He tried, but his throat closed up on him. The doctor turned over in his sleep and a soft snore began to emit from his lips.

_“John…”_

Still no answer.

 

Sherlock’s vision began to darken at the edges as his chest’s burning became intolerable and he tasted the bitterness of iron on his tongue as his curls slumped forward on his brow.

 

Nothing he does, no practiced exercise, no stretch of his torso muscles, alleviates any of the pressure or the pain and eventually, the detective’s world succumbs to shadows and cold.


	25. Frequency of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much for sticking around! I know it's been a while, but I just finished up an internship, so I should have some free time to spit out some chapters soon!

A feeling of unsteadiness and nerves pulled John from his slumber. Something just on that side of _bit not good_ tugged at his consciousness and he scrubbed a hand at his face, stubble scratching at his weathered palms when the silence of the room turned his stomach.

“Sh’lock?” He murmured as his palm groped the other side of the covers that still had the slightest remnant of another person’s heat on them. “Ev’lyn?”

Nothing reacted in the room and he shot up like a bullet, his eyes darting around the room and catching the disheveled bed to his right; no girl, no husband, bit not good. Panic began to bubble in his chest before a shift of cloth caught his attention. He slid from the bed, his hand silently pulling his Sig from the drawer of the bedside table and he aimed it towards the bathroom as he slinked forward. A few steps more and his stomach dropped at the sight of dark curls splayed out near the doorway and he crouched down, gently placing his weapon on the carpet.

“Sherlock!” Surgeon’s hands carded through the hair searching for blood or damage finding none, but stilling as he caught a glimpse of the hand near Sherlock’s face. Slight cyanosis had developed in the nail beds and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. _Shitshitshit, Dammit Sherlock!_

“Sherlock! Come on, love. Wake up!” He pleaded as he patted the detective’s face and checked over his husbands for any signs of trauma. Finding nothing physically worse than the blooming bruise on his cheek and a couple superficial ones on his chest, John flipped him on his back and began to compress and breathe into his husband, willing his revival. “Christ, Sherlock, _breathe_!”

It unsettled John’s stomach to think how familiar the motion of pressing on Sherlock’s chest was. It seemed that as soon as the detective had discovered that he had a heart; John had been charged with keeping it beating. “Come _on_ ,” he growled.

Suddenly, piercing pale blue eyes snapped open and a fit of coughs exploded beneath him. John maneuvered Sherlock into a recovery position as he sputtered and hacked and he rubbed lovingly on his back, “You’re all right, Sherlock. Just breathe, you’re okay.”

A large palm rested on his shoulder and the detective gasped, “Eve-eve… Evelyn…”

John cupped his bruised cheek in his hand and met his stare, “What happened, Sherlock? Where is she?”

Sherlock swallowed the dry lump in his throat and coughed into his hand, “John, she- she’s gone.”

John furrowed his brow and sat Sherlock up, expanding his torso, “What happened? Where did she go?”

The detective pinched his eyes tight as if trying to remember and he rubbed the sore spots on his chest, “She was sleepwalking.”

“Since when does Evelyn sleepwalk?” John asked incredulously as stood up and wet a flannel, bending back to dab it on Sherlock’s split lip.

He winced at John’s attentions, but continued to speak, finally coming back to his natural clarity, “She doesn’t. She never has.”

“Wait- did you try and wake her up? You should know better than that!” John chided half-heartedly as he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s head.

“No, John, I’m not nearly as ignorant of medical procedure as you think I am,” he snapped, his dry tongue darting over broken skin and filling his mouth with the taste of iron again. “I let her walk around but she tried to open the door so I turned her around towards the bed.”

John’s eyebrows rose to his hairline and he scoffed as he traced a thumb lightly on the shadowing on Sherlock’s pale flesh, “You’re saying she did _that_? You got beat up by a seventeen-year-old-girl?”

Sherlock scowled and winced as he pulled himself to his feet, “Stop being so derogatory; it’s unbecoming.”

John rubbed a hand at the nape of his neck as he followed Sherlock back to the beds where he watched him pull clothes from the overnight bag John had packed and begin to slip out of his T-shirt. “I know, sorry. But where is she?”

Sherlock began to fasten his silk shirt and he grimaced, “I don’t know, but she wasn’t herself. I’ve been around sleepwalkers, John; they don’t act like that.”

John quirked a brow and Sherlock shrugged, waving a hand flippantly, “Mycroft walked about in his sleep for years when we were children, but he never had that dull… _absence_ in his eyes.” He waved his hand emphatically as he shook his head, “There was still something _him_ in there. She struck me and showed no kind of comprehension, nothing at all.” He cocked an eyebrow at John and chewed his cheek, “I tried to stop her leaving, but her vast knowledge of pressure points is impressive.”

John winced as that part was most definitely his doing. Evelyn had come to him after her first fight, lip all bloodied, and John had explained to her various pressure points on the body that she could manipulate if she were ever in need of protection.

“You’re saying she was in a trance? That’s a little…” He frowned and waved a hand in the air looking for an appropriate term.

“I know what it sounds like, John.” Sherlock bit out, frustrated. He eyed him up and pursed his lips. “Are you coming?”

John scrambled to throw on his jeans and pull his jacket off of the floor, finally pattering out behind the tall detective with a growing knot in his chest, “Where do you think she went?”

That sharp glare that Sherlock only donned when a case turned sour and he had no more evidence from which to gather more information sent a shiver down John’s spine as the detective climbed down the steps and into the summer night air.

“I have an idea.”

 

***

 

_Jesus, my head hurts. Was I hit by a bloody train? Ugh, Daddy should have some paracetamol in his little kit._

Evelyn groaned and her stomach roiled as she pinched her eyes shut.

_God it’s cold. …And hard. Did I roll off the bed?_

She attempted to rub the sleep from her eyes but her arms were halted abruptly before her face.

_What the hell?_

She jerked her wrists up and when they resisted she snapped open her eyes, sobering up immediately; her heart skyrocketing as she took in her surroundings.

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh, I’ve done it now._

Her head jerked back and forth and skimmed over the cold stone that surrounded her. Mismatched stone mortared haphazardly into an archway above her and a singular small window blemished the limestone very near the ceiling and allowed the scent of rain and grass and a sliver of moonlight to permeate through the dark room. She looked down and rolled her wrists in the rope bindings knotted to an eyehole pin in the wall.

She grimaced and clamored to her feet, leaning back with all of her weight to try and free the rope.

_A dungeon? How melodramatic. Come on little rope. You don’t want to keep me trapped do you? Come on!_

Much to her chagrin, the rope only tightened around her wrists and chaffed the fair skin as she grunted and growled in frustration.

“Dammit!” She hollered, jerking the rope in the eye pin irately before groaning and giving up. “Jesus Christ, seriously- what the- urgh!”

She leaned forward to pull the hair from her face and she caught a glimpse of her attire in the darkness.

“Pajamas?” She queried no one in particular as she turned her ankle to examine the striped sleep attire. “I suppose I should be a little more concerned,” she giggled exasperatedly, “but I guess I could have been kidnapped in less comfortable clothes.” She turned and examined the depth and height of the room more extensively, determining the best way to escape. “Okay then, one door, too far for me to reach; one window, no glass and out of my reach; I _could_ use my rope as a weapon, but they’d have to be on top of me, so I’d kinda rather not. Great. That’s just _great._ ”

She crinkled her nose as her memories started coming back to her, “Wait- how did I even get here? Shit- where is _here_? Wait- dungeon? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Am I in the castle? _Seriously_? I give up. I _literally_ have no faith left in humanity. Come on- you couldn’t be even a _little_ more imaginative?”

She laughed in spite of herself and slumped against the cold stone. She raised her wrists up and smirked, “I can’t imagine it would take _too_ long to chew through these? Wow- wouldn’t that be a sight.”

She groaned and slipped down the rough stone and rested her bound hands in her lap.

_Wonder if Dad and Daddy know I’m missing yet._

She nearly jumped out of her skin as she heard a groan come from farther into the dark room. _A woman, perhaps?_

She crawled on her knees to try and get a better look in the shadows, “Hello? Are you hurt?”

Another moan that transformed into a cry echoed in the stone room and Evelyn’s heart broke at the piteous sound, “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re not alone anymore. You’ll be all right.”

The crying morphed into sniffles and the cracked voice of a young woman whispered back at her, a light Irish tone echoing in the room, “A-are you dead?”

She chuckled and shook her head, not sure if the other girl could see her, “No, as far as I’m aware, I am very much _not_ dead.”

Evelyn smiled and sat back on her heels as she finally pinpointed the source of the sound across the room in the corner, “My name’s Evelyn. What’s yours?”

The faceless voice sniffled as if she were wiping her arm across her face and coughed, “Ly-Lysandra.”

The young detective grinned, “What a beautiful name. Do you know what it means?”

“N-no.”

“Your name is the same as the daughter of Ptolemy a few centuries B.C.” She smiled as she heard the Irish girl shifted, probably to be able to hear her better. “Her name literally means ‘liberator’ or ‘freedom’.”

Lysandra chuckled lightly and Evelyn’s heart warmed with her success, “That’s right pretty. You make that up?”

She smirked, “I _wish_ I was that creative. Nope, our family has a thing about names.” She waved her hand to enunciate her point before remembering no one could see it, “Everything has to _mean_ something. For example, my name is Evelyn. It means ‘little bird’.” She snorted, “I know- sappy, right? Well, my last name means ‘Warrior’ and I can only imagine what a little warrior bird looks like. I guess a little boxing pigeon would be pretty entertaining.”

Lysandra sniffed a laugh and Evelyn sat back up against the wall and sighed trying to make light of their situation, “So what’re you in for?”

She heard the shuffle of clothes and skin as if she were wrapping her arms around her knees, “I- I don’t know. I was here with my family and then all of a sudden I woke up in the dark. I don’t even remember how I got here or how love I’ve been down here.”

Evelyn scoffed and ran a hand through her hair, “Well my dear, I think we are in the same boat.”

It was silent for a moment as both girls became lost in their thoughts before Evelyn’s memory flipped up a red flag. “Wait- you were with your family? Were you visiting Bradenbuck?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard about you!” She exclaimed, her voice echoing too loud in the small box. “The lady at the inn told me you had been kidnapped last week. I’m so glad you’re all right!”

“They were telling people about me?” She asked, sounding dumbfounded.

“Yeah! Actually that was half the reason I ended up visiting this castle today- yesterday? - something. Our waitress told me I couldn’t go because it was dangerous since I was a girl, _SO_ my pride took a really big hit and I went to spite her.” She laughed and shook her head, “I guess she was right! Look at us!”

Lysandra chucked weakly and Evelyn sighed, “What’s happened to you?”

Lysandra sighed and Evelyn heard the clothes shift again, “When I woke up here, a man came in and yelled at me. He hit me and tied me up here, but he just seems to be using me as a sounding board for his anger. I don’t fight with him, so I guess I’m not a very fun prisoner.”

Evelyn shook her head, “No, you’ve probably been keeping yourself alive that way. Don’t worry, though. My Dad is the world’s greatest detective. If anyone can find us, he can. And Daddy won’t let him live it down if he doesn’t.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

Evelyn smirked, “Oh ye of little faith. You haven’t seen _determined_ like a pissed off Sherlock Holmes. I swear; the man runs on air and angst.”

Evelyn almost giggled when she heard a little sharp inhalation of awe, “Sherlock Holmes? You’re Sherlock Holmes’ daughter?”

“Yep! Well, sort of,” she admitted. “He and my Daddy were best friends before he went away for a while and when he came back my Daddy was getting married to my mother.” She shrugged, “My mother died in a car wreck, but somehow I lived through it. Either way, he’s been my Dad as long as Daddy has and now they’re married so even though there’s no blood, he’s still my Dad.”

“Blood is thicker than water,” Lysandra mumbled, more happily than she had sounded yet.

Evelyn smiled, “Do you know where that saying originated?”

Lysandra hummed ascent, “Blood of brothers is thicker than the water of the womb.”

Evelyn actually squealed, “I _like_ you! You know your stuff!”

Lysandra seemed to chipper up and Evelyn could hear her smile in her words, “So your last name is Watson, I reckon?”

“Yup. Doctor John H. Watson of the R.A.M.C. is my Daddy. If you could see me, you’d say I was the spitting image of him.”

The Irish girl sniffed, “I’m sure you’re beautiful.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere!” Evelyn quipped, earning her a decent laugh from her invisible counterpart.

Evelyn tried to wriggled her wrists and the binding and grimaced as the coarse cord cut deeper into her skin. She sighed and flopped her hands back down in her lap in frustration.

“Can’t get out. Guess you’re stuck with me.”

Her heart suddenly skipped as she heard the echo of boots against stone steps and she scrambled to her feet. (There would be no way she’d meet her captor on her knees.) With her back flush against the wall, she lifted her chin and puffed out her chest attempting to make her short body more intimidating, but she decided that she probably only looked like a petulant little boy setting himself for a scolding.

The measured footsteps stopped abruptly and Evelyn sucked in her breath as the door across the thinner section of the room creaked open.

_Footsteps sound like a man. Tall as Dad, built like Daddy. Heavy. Sturdy. Obviously mad as a hatter._

The man open and shut the door and she heard the whisper of cloth against wood as if he were leaning against the door.

“What do you want?” She spat, feeling a little bolder than she probably had the sense to be.

The man’s voice was dark and vicious, cutting the air like a knife, “You are filled with the devil’s voice. _Necromancer_.”

Although ice ran through her veins, she crinkled her nose and had to contain her scoff, “Oh you really are off your rocker, aren’t you? Do you see a necromancer here? Because I certainly don’t.”

The man flicked open a phone, the light illuminating his face. Blonde hair to his ears and piercing blue eyes; he was _definitely_ _mad._ He tilted his chin down and scowled, “You heard the call, girl. You heard the voices of the dead.”

She quirked her eyebrow and frowned, “What are you talking about? I can’t speak to the dead. I’m not even _religious!”_

“James four-seven: ‘ _Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you_ ,’” he said plainly as he stepped towards her, the phone somewhat illuminating his other arm pulling something heavy and blunt looking from behind his back.

_Oh shit. Okay, I’m doing better than Lysandra. Let’s keep the attention on me._

She cowed away from him as far as possible, sliding further down the wall until her wrists jerked her back to the pin, heart pounding and eyes opened wide in anticipation, “Oh, you’re serious? Look, I’m- I’m not with the devil! What are you going on about?”

His mouth grimaced and his eyes pinned her to the wall as she crossed the distance with calm, measured steps. “Girl, you heard the voices of the dead. They called you here tonight.”

She bristled, jerking her wrists until she was sure they were bleeding from the friction, “What are you _talking_ about? I can think of a thousand other places I’d go besides here, dead people calling me or not.”

He raised a hand and she braced herself for the strike, only to hear the static of a video playing instead. She cracked an eye open and her jaw dropped as she focused on the phone screen in front of her.

Sure enough, it was _her._ The video had obviously been taken by the man judging from the height and angle of the shot, and as she moved, he followed a few meters behind her. Hair let down, clothed in the same outfit she was currently wearing, and eyes wide open as she walked into the castle walls under the veil of moonlight. She watched as her own feet descended down a set of stairs and her own hands pressed a wooden door (she decided the door into the dungeon she was caged in), and she walked across the room and sat next to the eyehole pin, wrists exposed for the cameraman. Her heart stopped and she shook her head.

_That’s… That’s ME… I don’t…_

Indeed, he had been correct. The video had sound and didn’t seem to have been doctored as she could hear the echo of her steps, the creak of the wood and the imperfections of the microphone trying to catch snippets of her breathing. _She_ was the one moving on her own volition. He wasn’t coaxing her, leading her, or _anything._

She felt her heart palpitate in her chest and her face pinched in concern, “I don’t… I don’t understand. Where did you-? I don’t…”

He shut off the video and slid the piece of technology in his jeans pocket before raising his hand to cup her shoulder, Evelyn instinctively flinching away. His voice suddenly became soft and reassuring and it made her stomach curdle, “First John one-nine: ‘ _If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness._ ’ Girl, repent and He will spare your soul a fiery eternity. You must _confess_!”

She shook her head and hollered, “I haven’t _done_ anything! I don’t know _how_ you got that video- but that’s _not ME_! I don’t have anything to confess!”

He suddenly gripped her shoulder and drove it into the rough stone, causing her to cry out as his thumb unwittingly drove into her scar His voice grew dark and heated as he boomed in the small room, the religious text slipping as if it were second nature, “First John one-eight: ‘ _If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us._ ’ You lying wretch! _Confess your sins!_ ”

Evelyn felt the sting of frightened tears prickle behind her eyes and she blinked them away, her voice cracking as she yelled back, “I haven’t _done_ anything! How can I confess to a crime I haven’t committed? That’s like remembering someone you’ve never met!”

She yelped as the object in his hand (a stone it seemed) cracked against the wall next to her head and the man’s face crept precariously close to hers, “You can hear them, she-devil. You have been cursed with the mark of evil and you shall surely be condemned.”

She felt her chest begin to heave in horror and she stammered, “I’ve not been marked by _anything_! And I can’t hear anyone! What are you-?”

The young woman yelped as the same buzzing sensation she had heard earlier suddenly filled her brain, causing her knees to buckle beneath her and she slid to the ground. She heard a squeal from the other side of the room and the whisper of clothes as Lysandra curled in on herself.

_So it’s NOT just me! This is brilliant! I’m NOT going insane!_

She cried out again as the man gripped her golden curls with a firm fist and pulled her back up.

“The devil possesses you, girl! You hear the call of the deceased!”

Beginning to honestly panic, tears spilled over her cheeks, “I’m not- I don’t understand! What is that _noise_?”

 _I’m not even religious,_ her mind argued. _You have to believe in possession for it to be real. Okay look- don’t panic! Keep your head about you. Christ! What is that sound?_

The grip on her hair retracted and she slumped to the ground, raising her arms to cover her ears awkwardly and cringing at the pull on her wrists.

The man stood straight up and looked down his nose at the currently crying girl on the floor and snarled, “If you refuse to repent, you will face the wrath of the Lord. He shall smite the wicked and unjust!”

She whimpered at the buzzing in her ears but she managed to pull out one of the few verses she remembered from her failing brain, “Lamentations three-twenty-two: ‘ _The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end_.’ The Christian God is based on _love_ , not _wrath_!”

A sound slap clapped against her cheek and she cringed away as the man hollered, “There is no ‘Christian’ God, wretched girl! There is the one and Almighty! He who blasphemes the name of the Lord shall certainly be put to death!”

Finally realizing she wouldn’t win the fight, she decided to change tactics and speed up the process; hoping that he would make a mistake in his haste, “Then _do it_ , God dammit! Make the bloody ringing _stop_!”

Lysandra gasped and Evelyn heard a murmured “ _no_ ” beg for mercy before she glared back at the man before her.

The stone the man had carried in suddenly clattered to the floor and the man’s face glowed with heat Evelyn was sure to be a slightly alarming shade of crimson as he growled, “‘First Peter three-eighteen: _For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit_.’ If you will not repent, we shall give life to your spirit by condemning your flesh.”

The man gripped the eyehook and Evelyn’s jaw dropped as he yanked it from the stone with one quick jerk of his arm. She let her legs stay limp underneath her as he tried to drag her towards the door by her rope, the cord digging into her flesh and painting the tan material scarlet, “Let me _go_! Thou shalt not kill! Isn’t that a commandment or something?!”

She squealed as a hand gripped at her golden curls again and pulled her reluctantly to her feet. He pulled her face close to his and she could smell the acid on his breath as her eyes met him with a glare of defiance.

“First John three-eight: _Whoever makes a practice of sinning is of the devil, for the devil has been sinning from the beginning. The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the works of the devil_.”

He jerked her head back by her locks until her neck was completely exposed to him. She squirmed in his grip and began to thrash as a warm and slick tongue tasted her skin from clavicle to jaw, before biting her hard enough to leave a mark beneath her mandible.

He dripped with condemnation and inflated sense of self as he drew his mouth near her ear and his voice oozed like black smoke.

“I am _Kushiel_. I am the bringer of His will. And I _will_ destroy the works of the devil.”

She felt him smile against her cheek as he opened the door and slung her into the stairwell.

 

“ _All of them.”_

 

 

***

 

 

“This place is even creepier at night than it is in the day,” John mumbled as he followed in Sherlock’s footsteps up the hill and towards Earl Hoyle’s Castle. The moon had only decided to show half of its face, and left the world in a hazy grey that only allowed the two men to see grand movement in the darkness.

He jumped a few steps closer to his husband’s driven form and looked into the woods on the far side of the castle. Indeed, the woods cried at night; the wind screaming through the trees and hollows with vengeance and causing an eerie howl to fill the air.

“The Father,” Sherlock mumbled, almost to himself but John caught it.

“The Father? What about him? You think he’s the one who kidnapped Evelyn?”

Sherlock kept his face forward but he growled, “The Father had something like a switch or a clicker in his pocket. He was fiddling with it while we were in the inn. That means he’s technologically competent. If there were a candidate for kidnapping, someone mechanically savvy is more likely than someone who rides a horse, no? He kept flicking his eyes towards Evelyn and his pupils dilated when she got upset about being told it wasn’t safe for her to go. He was excited. I should have seen it sooner. Idiot!”

John furrowed his brow and jumped a step as Sherlock’s stride lengthened, “If you hadn’t noticed, _everyone_ was staring at us; not saying he’s innocent.”

“What Father has callouses?” Sherlock queried flatly as they came close to the stone building, the screaming wind setting his teeth on edge.

“Ones that work outside in a small town?” John supplied just as plainly.

Sherlock suddenly ducked and pried something from the wet ground, holding it up for John’s inspection, “One who uses rope.”

John opened his mouth to say something snarky in reply, but he was startled into silence by an ear-splitting shriek coming from within the castle.

He didn’t need to ask Sherlock why he started running; he’d recognize Evelyn’s voice anywhere.

 

 

***

 

 

“Let me _go!_ ” She shrieked, bound fingers gripping and scratching at the hand that pulled at her roots. She let out a scream that made even her head hurt as he guided her down a vacant stone hallway. The buzzing noise had finally abated so the only sounds that filled Evelyn’s mind were the incessant thrumming of her own heart and the murmuring man that lead her. Suddenly, he slid open a wooden door and thrust his arm out, throwing her face first into a room on the top tier of a corner spire.

She skipped on the floor, immediately turning over and glaring at her captor as she rubbed tenderly at her scalp, “ _Thank you!_ ”

Her eyes scanned the room and growled internally (and probably externally).

_Small cot, liquor bottles, someone’s been living here but not a permanent residency, he must have had a mental break and crawled up here, how sad. Balcony. Okay, let’s stay AWAY from the balcony._

The man shut the door and leaned against it; the moonlight from the balcony illuminating the entire room and his features in a smoky hue. Evelyn cringed as his smile lit up before her, the bruises underneath his eyes pinching against his cheeks and his crooked grin deepening the wrinkles in his jowls. She scrambled to her feet and positioned herself to have her back to the wall adjacent to the balcony. She would _not_ be headed there if she had any say in the matter.

“Do you wish to accept the Lord as your true savior? To declare your sins to the Almighty?” He purred, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I don’t have anything to confess, you maniac!” She spat, shoulders digging into the mortared stone. She shook her head and pleaded with her bound hands, “Look, what _happened_ to you? We need to get you _help_.”

The man shook his head and mumbled _, “_ Jeremiah seventeen-fourteen: _Heal me, O LORD, and I will be healed; save me and I will be saved, for you are the one I praise.”_

“Okay, this is useless,” she murmured to herself in frustration.

_If I could just incapacitate him somehow, I could get us out of here. What can I do?_

She scanned the area and the man stalked towards her, sending an ache to run into her legs.

“And how exactly are you going to make me confess?” She spat as he closed the distance.

The man gripped her chin and jerked it up to face him, “Are you afraid?”

She snarled, pressing her back into the stone as far as she could, “I’m not afraid of _anything_. And I’m certainly not afraid of _you_!”

He sneered, “You really should be.”

 

***

 

“Sherlock, where is she?!”

Sherlock spun around and snarled, “If I knew don’t you think I’d be there already?”

“Well where would he keep her?” John bit back. “Somewhere secluded, I’d say. If not there, where would he find the most comfortable? That’d be where he’d do… whatever it is he wants to.”

“John, do shut up! I’m trying to think!”

John huffed exasperatedly but obliged. Sherlock seemed to stand still and rub his palms at his temples so John looked around. Stone walls and corridors everywhere; nothing out of the ordinary for an abandoned tourist destination at least and the thought made his stomach curdle.

_If I were a psychotic clergyman, where would I hold someone? Somewhere probably dramatic or secluded and somewhere only a castle rumored to have a ghost would have._

His eyes lit up and he grabbed his husband’s arm, “Sherlock, is there a dungeon or a vault of some sort?”

Sherlock pinched his eyes shut and mumbled to himself as if reading from an old text, “I- I’d imagine so. I don’t know where it would be thou-”

John grabbed his jacket sleeve and dragged him behind him, “No matter! We have a better chance of finding it while moving than by thinking about it!”

The pair sprinted down a hall on the East side of the building and listened to the eerie howling of the forest as it echoed in the stone halls. After finding nothing after several turns down different corridors, they finally found a set of stairs leading downward near the abandoned indoor abbey. John shrugged as he began to descend, “Vaults aren’t usually kept upstairs; let’s give it a go.”

He slipped out his phone from his jeans and switched it on; the screen letting off an iridescent glow into the gloom of the stairway. Sherlock stopped and stooped down suddenly, “John! Hand me that.”

John obliged and the detective shined it on the stone steps. His fingertips ghosted the smooth surface until he pulled up a single thread of something light. He presented it to John and scowled. “Golden curl; she’s been here.”

John puffed out his cheeks and continued his descent, “At least we’re headed in the right direction. Did you call Lestrade?”

Sherlock stood and followed the doctor down the stony steps, nodding, “He said he’d alert the local office, but they’ll have trouble getting here in time, I think. Incompetent forces.”

John scoffed, “Well for his sake, they’d better get here before I shoot the bastard myself.”

Sherlock smiled as the hallway went silent but for the sounds of their steps.

A few minutes more, and John was beginning to lost his patience, “Christ, we’re about half-way to China by now!”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, “Actually John, if we were to be cutting straight through the Earth, we’d end up somewhere in the middle of the ocean near New Zealand; which would be rather refreshing as we’d more likely burn up in the core of the planet.”

John quirked a brow, “And yet Heliocentrism escapes you.”

The doctor sighed before the phone light gleamed on something in the distance, “Hey! I think we’ve got it!”

John bounded down the last few steps and pressed his ear against the wooden door, “There’s someone in there.” He pulled back and jerked at the handle, growling in frustration. “Dammit, it’s locked!”

Sherlock leaned against the cool wall and shrugged, “Well you _could_ always break the door down.”

John narrowed his eyes at the detective and cocked his eyebrow in challenge.

Within seconds, wood shattered across the floor as John kicked the door from its handle. He waved the detective towards the opening and _humphed_ in accomplishment.

Sherlock’s brow touched his hairline as he leaned forward and examined the shattered door, “Yes well brute force is rather advantageous sometimes.”

John scoffed as he stepped over the wood and into the dark room, shining his phone into the shadows, “Hello? Is someone in here?”

Something in the darkness shifted a bit before he heard a reply, “H-hello?”

John’s heart sank at the unfamiliar Irish voice, but he followed it and lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. He shined the light on the corner and found a young woman, about his daughter’s age, cowering with her knees pulled up to her chest. He knelt before her and shined the light in his face to show her his expression, “Hello there. My name is John. Are you hurt?”

He shined the light back towards her and she shook her head, ginger curls falling down her cheeks. John looked back as a palm rested on his shoulder and the detective knelt at his side. John flashed the light at his face so the girl could see the voice.

Sherlock, uncharacteristically passive looking, extended her a pale hand to help her up, “What is your name?”

As soon as he spoke, her eyes lit up and she beamed, “You’re- you’re Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock retracted his hand slightly and pursed his lips in suspicion, “Why do you say that?”

She lifted her hands, apparently bound with rope, to her face as tears began to slide down dirty cheeks, “She said you’d come, but I didn’t believe it! I-I’ve been here so long, I didn’t think I’d ever get out and yet you’re right _here_!”

Suddenly, the detective was bowled over as the girl wrapped her bound arms around his neck and wept into his jacket. Surprised and confused, Sherlock slowly pressed a hand to her back and rubbed as if she were Evelyn, “There, there. You’re all right.”

John pet her head and tucked the red curls behind her ear as he cupped her cheek, “Sweetheart, you said ‘she’. Were you talking about a girl, about your age, golden hair and big blue eyes?”

The girl opened her eyes and hiccupped in Sherlock’s arms, “I- I don’t know. I couldn’t see her. He kept her in the dark. Her name was Evelyn, though.”

John’s face lit up and he smiled, griping her shoulder, “Yes! Yes, that’s her! Where is she?”

Her face grimaced and she rubbed it back into Sherlock’s chest, “He took her upstairs. He did it to me, once. I never fought with him again!”

John sighed, “Of _course_ she started a fight with him. Christ kid!” He gripped his hair and puffed out his cheeks, “What did they argue about?”

Her grip on Sherlock tightened as she muffled her sobs with the cloth of his jacket, “He told her to confess her sins about speaking to the dead. She fought with him and he took her upstairs! I’m sorry- I- I couldn’t help!”

Sherlock’s large palm cupped the nape of her neck against him, “Shhh, you did well. Now tell us: where did he take her?”

She sniffled and rubbed her face on her own sleeve before retracting her arms from around Sherlock’s neck, “It’s up on the top spire. It’s where he lives.” Suddenly her face paled and she gripped Sherlock’s arm, “Please don’t leave me here! Take me with you! _Please_!”

John smiled warmly and cupped her cheek, “We won’t leave you. You’re safe now. Come on; let’s get you untied, shall we?”

She nodded her head and extended her bound hands to the doctor’s inspection as he pulled a pocket knife from his jacket pocket and delicately gripped her wrist as he searched for purchase, “You’re John Watson, yeah?”

The doctor smiled as he flicked the blade out and carefully slid it underneath the cord, “That’s right. What’s your name?”

She flushed for no reason and shrugged, “Lysandra.”

His deep blue eyes met hers and creased, “That’s a beautiful name, love.”

She finally smiled, “Thank you.”

“Queen of Macedonia,” Sherlock supplied softly as he held the phone up to light John’s ministrations.

“Are all of you wicked smart?” She asked lightly, narrowing her eyes at the detective and John chuckled good-humoredly.

“Oh, I’m sure they like to think they are.”

Sherlock huffed irritation from his nostrils as John finally worked the blade through the material and peeled it away from her raw skin, “There we go! Now let’s take a look.” He turned her wrists over in his hands and grimaced, “I don’t see any infection, but you’ll probably have a bit of nasty scarring, love.” He let her hands go and pulled at his undershirt, ripping two lines of fabric from the material before lowering his button-up and grabbing for her hands again. “I know you really want to, but you can’t rub at these, okay?” He wrapped a piece of fabric snugly around either wrist and knotted it. “This will help you bumping it, but you need to not irritate it before we can get some antiseptic on it, alright?”

She nodded and rolled her wrists, smiling at the range of motion before accepting John’s hand as he stood. As she did as well, her underused thigh muscles spasmed and she fell into John’s grip.

“You’re all right. We’ll just give you a second to adjust.”

She smiled as she pulled herself back straight and met his eyes in the darkness, “Your daughter is just like you.”

John’s lips pulled up in a half-smile and his chest warmed, “Yes, erm thank you. She’s a peach when you catch her on a good day.”

Just as Lysandra moved to walk forward, a terrified scream from far away echoed in the stone and John’s heart skipped a beat, “Evelyn!”

Lysandra tensed her legs and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, stumbling while dragging him towards the stairway, “Follow me!”

 

***

 

“If you were trying to make a point, consider it made!” Evelyn squeaked as she looked back and over the balcony from which she was seated. _God, I hate heights. Christ, I’m gonna pee myself if I don’t get off of this soon._ The thought almost made her smile before the man jerked her backwards again and she screamed.

“Only when we are faced with our certain demise do we see God for the awesome power he is,” the man said plainly as he gripped the front of her sleep shirt and pushed her father back of the balcony railing.

With her heart thrumming in her ears and the sensation of her stomach falling through her feet, she swallowed and nodded, “Okay, Okay! He’s awesome! He’s all-powerful! I get it! I get it! Please, let’s just go back inside to talk about his, yeah? It’s a little chilly out here and the atmosphere is a little off, you know- just not the place for such a-”

Her frightened rambling was cut off by a slap to the mouth, “Shut up!”

Her brows bounced from the impact and she scowled, “What do you _want_ from me?”

He smiled wryly and gripped the rope attached to her wrists tightly, “You heard the voices of the dead. You must repent!”

Evelyn opened her mouth to retort, but instead let loose an ear-splitting screech as the man pushed her body from the balcony, her shoulders jerking almost out of their sockets as the rope pulled taught on her wrists, preventing her from falling to her death.

 _OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod!_ She panicked, her heart trying to bounce out of her ribcage and her wrists aching from her weight. She looked down and immediately regretted doing so as her stomach churned in distress as she swung. _Oh My God. Let me go! Wait! Wait! Don’t let me go! PLEASE don’t let me go! Bloody hell, I’m gonna die. Oh my God, I’m dead. I’m so dead. Deaddeaddeaddead._ Her hands gripped around the rope and she attempted to pull herself up, but only succeeded in jostling her shoulders more so.

The man leaned over the barricade and grinned, “Do you understand his power now? God gives life and can take it away!”

“You’re _insane_!” She screamed as her body dangled in the precipice above the stone walls fifty meters below. _Oh my God, you won’t survive this fall, stop antagonizing him!_

She squealed as he jerked the rope and she felt every muscle in her body tense in fear as her body bumped against the cool stone of the wall beneath the balcony. Her brain was in full panic mode and she could barely see straight.

_Oh my God! Holy shit! Bloody hell! Jesus Christ! I wished for wings for my eighth birthday; now would be a REALLY good time for that to come true!_

Suddenly, she heard the door bang open in the room and the man turned away from her; his grip ( _thank God_ ) not loosening as he startled.

“Who are you?!” The man hollered, his face reddening in fury.

Evelyn heart skipped a beat as she heard John’s familiar voice, “Look, we’re gonna need you to stop whatever it is that you’re doing so we can talk this out. No need to be rash about all of this.”

“She’s a necromancer!” He cried, the rope jerking as he lifted one hand and pointed towards the doctor, “And so is _that_ girl! They both can hear the dead!”

Evelyn crinkled her nose. _That girl? They must have found Lysandra! Beautiful!_

Meanwhile, Sherlock stepped forward, tall and intimidating and looked down his nose at the man and extending his hand, “There are no such things as necromancers. Now I’ll kindly have that rope from you, if you please.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped at Evelyn’s squeal as the man jerked on the only thing holding her from an inevitably fatal fall. The man growled at him, “Can’t you see? They’re spawn of the devil!”

Sherlock’s eyes caught the awkward twitching of the man’s jaw and shrugged, “I was there when that girl you’re dangling was born and I can assure you, the devil had no part in her conception.”

Evelyn, although she couldn’t see her father groaned at the implications. _Seriously? Could you not?_

The man growled and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, “I am _Kushiel_! I will bring the wrath of God down on those that condemn him. Ezekiel twenty-five-seventeen: _I will execute great vengeance on them with wrathful rebukes. Then they will know that I am the Lord, when I lay my vengeance upon them_.”

Sherlock gripped his curls as he searched through the walls of his mind palace. He pushed open his mind vault of books; slipping an old copy of the Bible from its home on a shelf and flipping open the pages. He had always assumed that knowing the religion would help him deduce the reasoning for the actions when the situation called for it. He figured his daughter dangling from a balcony was a decent-enough reason to pull on the ancient knowledge.

“Ah! Isaiah fifty-five-seven: _Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the Lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon_.”

The man still immediately stilled and his brow pursed, “You know the Lord’s word?”

Sherlock nodded fervently, “Of course. Isn’t it obvious?”

The man suddenly scowled and gripped the rope in his hand with renewed fury, “The Devil knows how to read, too.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped and his hand lifted for patience, “What? Oh for God’s sakes! Erm- okay 'Romans five-eight: _God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us._ _’_ Give her the chance to redeem herself in the eyes of our Lord.” He pointed to the well-read Bible on the floor next to the make-shift cot in the corner of the room, “Allow her the chance to recognize her sins and repent so that she may live a righteous life.”

The man seemed to contemplate it as he held his weight against the burden in his hands, “She cannot redeem herself. She practices witchcraft! ‘Matthew five- forty-eight: _You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.’_ How can she ever hope to be perfect with such hatred in her heart?”

Sherlock thinned his lips and his eyes pinched tight as he searched for the correct rebuttal, “He is just. He is loving. He will forgive her of her wickedness, and wipe her heart clean. ‘Psalm eighty-six-fifteen **:** _But you, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.’_ _” He clapped his hands together in a small prayer of sanctuary. “Kushiel, doer of His will, I beseech you to allow her to beg for the Lord’s forgiveness.”_

Sherlock stepped back as the man’s hand fiddled with something in his pocket and his heart pattered in his chest as the girl behind him crumpled to her knees beside John and Evelyn cried out where she hung, “Christ! _Enough_ already!”

John stepped away from Lysandra’s squealing form and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, “Sherlock, what is going on?”

Wide-eyed, Sherlock shook his head, glancing from the cringing girl on the floor to the rope holding up the other one, “I- I don’t know.”

The man jerked the rope in his hand and Evelyn hollered with the effort, “See? These girls are _cursed_! There can be nothing done to save their tarnished souls!”

While dangling, Evelyn’s head began to swim and she forced herself to make logical thought through the muddle of blue dragons and thunder from memories long since passed.

_If you hang here much longer, you’re going to pass out. Do whatever you can to get back on the balcony._

With her ears ringing and her chest pulling tight, she sucked in a breath and hollered; startling everyone on the terrace.

“I confess! I confess my sins! I’m sorry!”

Sherlock’s heart stopped as he watched the man’s face contorted with something like pleasure before pulling the rope towards him and leaning back over the edge. John slipped slowly past Sherlock and towards the man while he faced Evelyn.

“You confess?” He asked, brow cocked. “You accept your fate as a necromancer of Satan?”

Without any further idea of what to do, she nodded fervently, “Yes! Yes, I’ve seen the error of my ways! _Please_ just pull me up!”

Her stomach turned to ice as the man smiled and turned back to Sherlock, “Leviticus twenty-twenty-seven.”

The detective searched his thoughts and flipped through the pages of the ancient text until he read it aloud, his face blanching with every word, “ _A man or_ _woman who is a medium or a necromancer shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned-_ ’ oh God, John!”

The doctor lunged forward as the man’s hands released the cord and the twine material slipped off the edge of the stone accompanied by a terrified scream.

“Evelyn!” John cried out as his torso immediately hunched over the edge as his hands gripped fervently at the rope and the girl swinging on the other edge began to weep. He rolled his wrist in an attempt to gain more traction, but only found himself allowing the material to slip through his palm. His heart pounded on its way out of his ribcage as he hauled back, but found himself unable to lift her at the awkward angle.

To his side, silver-tinged ebony curls slammed against the stone guarding as the man who called himself Kushiel grappled with the detective. John kicked out towards the man on top, but the imbalance nearly sent him over the stone edge and caused the girl beneath him to swing like a pendulum; screeching in terror as her world swam about her.

Sherlock growled as the man clocked him against the granite and every time he gained purchase on the man’s body, he maneuvered out of his grip. A hand finally circled around his neck and he felt his Adam’s apple crush into his esophagus as he clawed at the offender.

Piercing blue eyes pinned him to the stone as he kicked out and the man smiled, “Galatians two-twenty: _I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I-_ ”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as glass shattered in front of him and the hand receded from his throat. The man before him slumped to the ground and Sherlock was surprised as he looked up and found the Irish girl wielding a shattered beer bottle from near the cot.

 _The efficacy of brute force continues to astonish me._ He rubbed at his neck as he jumped to his feet and thanked her before sliding next to his husband.

John heaved his daughter upwards, groaning from the awkward twist on his wrists before he felt large palms grip the cord farther down and haul backwards with him.

Sherlock wrapped the cord around his wrist and leaned back with his entire frame as John reached over the balcony and lifted the young woman from her dangling by the shoulders of her jacket; falling back as she scrambled over the edge and onto the floor in a trembling wreck.

John wrapped an arm around her heaving torso as she perched herself in his lap and wrapped bound hands around his neck.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod, _Daddy!_ I can’t breathe. Christ, I hate heights. Oh my God, Daddy, I can’t breathe!” She panicked as her chest tightened with the release of adrenaline in her system.

John cupped the nape of her neck against his chest and wrapped the other around her waist, stilling her body, “Shhh, Evelyn; you’re all right. Daddy’s got you. I’m right here, love. Daddy’s got you.”

Sherlock uncoiled the cord from his wrist and dipped down behind John, tucking the hair away from her face, “You’re all right, little bird. You’re safe now.”

She trembled until her muscles ached and her throat was raw with ragged breaths; pressing her chest into John’s and gripping around his neck tight, “Bloody hell, Daddy. I didn’t know what to do! I’m sorry! I- I didn’t know what to say!”

Sherlock leaned over John and picked her chin up with a single elegant finger until her eyes met his, “Evelyn, darling, nothing you would have said would have helped. Did you notice the tremors in his hands and face? Could you see the movement in his eyes or the bottles on the floor?” she shrugged and he pursed his lips, “Love, he called himself ‘Kushiel’. Do you know who that is?”

She sniffed and shook her head weakly against John’s chest. Sherlock smiled sadly as he wiped a tear from her cheek, “In Judeo-Christian folklore he’s one of the angels that allocates punishment in Hell. Love, this man is going through a Schizophrenic break. Nothing any of us could have said would have been enough to change his mind once made.”

She pressed her head farther into her father’s sternum as she lifted her other arm to cover her ear, “But what if he’s not wrong? What can’t you hear that God-awful noise?”

He smiled earnestly then, eyes creasing, and stood, “I think I have an idea.”

He padded over to the unconscious man and slipped a hand in his pocket, fiddling around until he pulled a small clicker from the cloth. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it for any tampering before pressing the button in the center. Evelyn’s entire body relaxed in John’s arms and Sherlock lifted his head to see Lysandra leaning against the wall, rubbing at her temples.

“I don’t understand,” John mumbled as he ran his fingers through Evelyn’s golden locks, “what is that?”

Sherlock flipped the clicker in the air and caught it before turning away from the two Watsons and towards the cot area on the other side of the room, “I told you, John. He’s technologically competent. I noticed this when we walked in, but it didn’t make sense till now.” He turned the cot over to produce a thin tablet with a black screen and sliders on it. “Do you know what this is?”

John cocked an eyebrow, “A tablet? So what?”

Sherlock scowled and rolled his eyes, “Oh don’t be dull, John. It’s a mixer app. Look, let me explain.” He looked down at Evelyn and then towards Lysandra with a sorrowful expression, “Please excuse this discomfort. I must prove a point to those of slower intellect.”

He flicked the clicker in his hand and the girls cringed at what seemed to be an invisible force before Sherlock showed John the screen and slowly slid one of the controllers down. John pursed his lips until Sherlock’s finger dragged nearly to the bottom of the screen and a shrill droning noise filled his mind and he shot Sherlock a glare, “What the hell is that?”

The detective flicked the clicker off and shoved it into his pocket, “As humans age, our hearing abilities diminish. That means that the frequencies of noises that we can hear gets lower and lower as we get older. Evelyn and Lysandra are under twenty, they can most likely hear ranges up to around sixteen and seventeen thousand hertz.” He pointed to himself then to his husband, “You and I on the other hand, can only hear, statistically, around twelve thousand or so. Although, I have to admit, making your victims hear things that aren’t there does give the impression of witchcraft capabilities. How intriguing.”

John shook his head, “You’re saying he was just playing loud noises?”

Sherlock hummed, “Yes. Do keep up, John.”

John growled and rolled his eyes, “So why the creepy keep? Why live in a castle?”

The detective shrugged as he walked to the balcony to examine the far away sound of sirens approaching, “Easy access to victims? It’s rather hard to attack locals that recognize you, so waiting here for tourists seems like a rather logical approach. He’s not been here for more than a month or two, so things have spiraled out of control terribly quickly, I’m afraid.”

John gripped Evelyn to him protectively as he eyed the man lying next to Sherlock’s feet, “Yes well let’s get him help or at least away from us so I can sleep at night, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled as lights flashed in the distance and he kneeled down towards the unconscious man, “You’ve made an enemy of Doctor John Watson, I’m afraid. That’s a very sad position to be in.”

Evelyn sniffed a chuckle and unwrapped John from her embrace, holding out her wrists expectantly. John smiled and set to work on the rough material, handing it to Sherlock as he slipped it from around her swollen wrists, “Looks like you might have sprained something, love. Don’t put pressure on it till I get a better look, okay?” As if she were five years old again, John lifted her wrists together and pressed light lips to either joint, returning Evelyn’s smile.

The detective set to work incapacitating the culprit with the used rope as John pulled himself up and lifted Evelyn gently by her elbow, checking her shoulder joints for damage before patting her down and nodding a clean bill of health.

Lysandra’s bright voice cut the air like a knife and Evelyn jumped at its sound, “You’re very blessed, you know.”

The young woman nodded in agreement and walked over to the missing girl and grabbed her hands, “So are you. Your parents will be absolutely ecstatic to see you again.”

Lysandra smiled and wrapped her arms around Evelyn’s neck, “Thank you.” Evelyn gripped her back and laughed as the redhead whispered in her ear, “You were right. You’re practically twins separated by half a century.”

She pulled away and walked over to Sherlock, gripping him around his thin waist and rubbing her face into his jacket, “Dad?”

He looked down and hummed, “Hmm?”

Navy eyes glanced up and with all the finality she could muster, she stated sternly,

 

“Dad, I’m ready to go home.”

 


	26. Idle Hands are the Devil's Handiwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for all of your comments, suggestions, and every kudos! I hope you're enjoying thos story as much as I am. Be prepared for some angst and bunches of fluff. :)

To: Jeremy

_Jeremy! I’m back from the nether of nowhere! :D –EV_

_15:37_

 

From: Jeremy

_EV? Who’s EV? OH! You mean the girl that fell off the face of the Earth?!_

_15:40_

To: Jeremy

_Don’t pretend that you’re not happy to hear from me you arse! –EV_

_15:42_

From: Jeremy

_She liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiives! Evelyn Watson- back from the dead!_

_15:45_

 

To: Jeremy

_Sod off! I miss you! Dinner? :) –EV_

_15:47_

From: Jeremy

_I think you’re barking up the wrong tree sweetheart! ;)_

_15:49_

 

To: Jeremy

_*Rolling eyes* So that’s a yes? Perfect! 1800 at Angelo’s OK? –EV_

_15:51_

From: Jeremy

_Sounds like a plan, Stan. I’ve been bored out of my bloody mind while you’ve been gone! Your damn boyfriend is going bonkers too. Get him off my case!_

_15:54_

To: Jeremy

_I’ll reign in the leash ;) See you tonight! –EV_

_15:56_

 

From: Jeremy

_OK. I’ve missed you birdie._

_15:57_

 

To: Jeremy

_Save it! I’m not talking to you till tonight! –EV_

_15:57_

 

To: Michael

_Hey stranger! –EV_

_15:47_

From: Michael

_Evelyn! Where have you been? I’ve been worried SICK about you!_

_15:48_

To: Michael

_Here there and yonder. I got attacked by a crazy guy in a castle. How was your summer? –EV_

_15:50_

From: Michael

_You did WHAT? Are you all right? God you’re like a walking catastrophe!_

_15:52_

To: Michael

_Am not! –EV_

_15:53_

 

From: Michael

_Are too!_

_15:54_

To: Michael

_Am NOT! –EV_

_15:56_

 

From: Michael

_Are TOO!_

_15:59_

To: Michael

_What are you? 5? Look, tomorrow is Saturday. Wanna grab some lunch? I’ll give you the low down on my adventures, yeah? –EV_

16:02

 

From: Michael

_You started it! And I can’t. My mum’s in town. I can meet you afterwards?_

_16:04_

To: Michael

_Mkay! Text me tomorrow! –EV_

_16:06_

From: Michael

_I’ve missed you Evelyn. Please stay safe._

_16:07_

 

To: Michael

_I’ve missed you too. And don’t I always? ;)_

_16:09_

 

From: Michael

_Yeah, OK. *cough* yougotshotnotme *cough*_

_16:11_

 

To: Michael

_RUDE. –EV_

_16:12_

 

From Michael:

_HONEST._

_16:13_

 

To: Michael

_See you tomorrow! IF I DECIDE TO SHOW UP! –EV_

_16:14_

 

From: Michael

_You wouldn’t dare not to! ;)_

_16:16_

 

To: Michael

_Cheeky bastard. TTYL –EV_

_16:18_

From: Michael

_;)_

_16:20_

 

***

 

“Dad!” Evelyn called as she slipped on her shoes and padded down the stairs, shoving her wallet in her back pocket and pulling the hood over her head. She had seen the clouds and could feel the pressure of rain in the air and was determined to not get caught like a drowned rat in the middle of London. She poked her head into the sitting room and caught a glimpse of Sherlock sitting at his chemistry set, knowing John was more than happy to have finally made it back to the surgery after their trip.

_Are those…. Ears? You know what- never mind. I don’t wanna know._

“Dad, I’m headed out!” She called as his head jerked up.

“No you’re not!” he hollered back sternly, narrowing his eyes.

Stunned, she leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms, “And just _why_ not?”

Sherlock gave her the Do-Keep-Up look and frowned, “Perhaps because there’s a man searching for any opportunity to pluck you from the streets and we don’t know where he is yet.” He gestured to the table, “Sit down.”

Evelyn’s jaw dropped a hair as she walked into the sitting area and pulled out a chair across the table from Sherlock.

“You can’t just keep me here, Dad,” she stated firmly, crossing her arms over her chest in defense. “I don’t care if there’s someone out there; I _need_ to get out!”

Sherlock lowered his gaze back into his microscope and sighed, “Evelyn, we _just_ got back. You can stay here until we find this man, if indeed he does exist.”

She groaned and he looked back up, “Dad! I’m not a child anymore! I can’t just stay here and play with my toys to keep me occupied. You _just_ said ‘ _if_ indeed he does exist’! What are you going to do? Keep me locked away in a tower till I’m old and grey?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scowled, “Always the dramatic flair, hmm?” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and sighed, “Look, love, I’m just trying to keep you safe. I’m sure this will be over _long_ before your gold comes anywhere close to silver.”

“I don’t _need_ you to keep me safe!” She hollered exasperatedly, her arms waving out. “I’m nearly an _adult_ and I’m going to Uni in a few weeks! You can’t possibly tell me that you’re going to force me to stay home from that, are you?”

Her father tilted his head to the side, “Evelyn, if that’s what it costs to keep you-”

“No!” She yelled, pounding her fist on the table and stunning Sherlock into silence. “Absolutely not! I _refuse_ to be locked up! I’ve been in hiding for _weeks_ ; I _need_ to get out there in the real world again. You are _not_ going to keep me here against my will.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped his gaze back into his microscope, waving her away, “Go up to your room, Evelyn. I’m not debating this with you.”

Evelyn scoffed and smacked her hand on the wooden table, “Oh that’s precious. You think just because you _say_ something that means I’m automatically going to listen? Dad, I’m an adult-”

“Who still acts like a toddler when she doesn’t get her way,” he finished nonchalantly, turning the nob on his equipment. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

“Are _you_?” She accused, causing him to lift his gaze minutely. “You’re telling me that I can’t leave our flat because you’re _scared_?”

“There is no shame in being concerned for your own survival, little bird.” He said as he lifted his head. “You want so much to be brave, Evelyn, but bravery is _nothing_ if you don’t have the wisdom to implement it correctly.”

“I don’t have to _try_ to be brave,” she spat indignantly as Sherlock cocked a brow.

“Yes well, the line between bravery and stupidity is so thin, Evelyn, that you won't know that you've crossed it until you’re bleeding on the pavement or _worse_. Is that what you want?” He questioned seriously as her sails seemed to deflate and her cheeks flushed.

“No,” she finally mumbled, wrapping her arms around herself and growling.

“Good,” Sherlock replied, “Now go up to your room and find something to keep yourself entertained.” He smirked, “Just try not to blow up anything.”

She rolled her eyes as she jerked out of her chair and slinked to the doorway before Sherlock’s voice caught her attention, “Evelyn?”

She spun around and huffed, “What?”

Sherlock stood from behind the table and walked over to her slowly, bending down to kiss her forehead before gripping her shoulder, “Just be patient, alright love? I know it’s frustrating, but we’ll return to normality soon enough.”

Evelyn scowled and pulled herself away, pounding up the stairs as she mumbled back at him, “Easy enough for you to say.”

 

***

 

 

Evelyn huffed an irritated breath as she bounced a ball against the wall on the opposite her bed and sighed. _O Fortuna_ was finishing in her ear buds and she bounced the ball in time with the measures of pulsing brass until the trumpets staccatoed in and finished out the song.

Jeremy’s reply to her text buzzed and she picked up the mobile.

 

To: Jeremy

_Turns out that three weeks of being exiled from society wasn’t enough. Maybe I can catch you tomorrow? –EV_

_16:45_

From: Jeremy

_I’m pretty sure that’s child abuse. You need to see the sun! Text me OK?_

_16:47_

 

She groaned as she tossed her phone on the bed as it slipped into the next song which to her surprise was not what she had intended.

“How ironic,” she smirked as the choir began to pulse in her ears.

_“I send a pestilence and plague, into your house, into your bed, into your streams, into your streets,  
into your drink, into your bread.”_

_“Upon your cattle, on your sheep,_ ” she mouthed as she bounced the ball in time with the heartbeat of song. _The Prince of Egypt_ had always been one of her favorite ancient animated movies if only for the music and brilliant colors that the images portrayed. It was rather ironic indeed that a story based on the Book of Exodus from the Bible was a song she was happy to hear on her return from her experiences with the Father of Bradenbuck.

 _“Once I called you brother. Once I thought the chance to make you laugh was all I ever wanted!”_ She sang with gusto as she tossed the ball forcefully against the wooden wall. “ _And even now I wish that God had sent another. Serving as your foe on his behalf is the last thing that I wanted!”_

She caught the ball just in time to knock it again against the wall as the angry music murmured of God’s wrath in her ears, “ _All the innocent who suffer from your stubbornness and pride!”_

Her cheeks flushed with the irritation of being kept locked up like a caged canary and she threw the ball with vigor on the last word, squealing as the ball zoomed past her and knocked with a resonating _thunk_ against the roof.

“Damn!” She breathed as she picked up the still slightly rolling ball from the floor and jumped onto her bed to inspect the damage to the ceiling.

“Oh, you got it bad, didn’t you? Daddy’s gonna be _pissed_.” She chided the ball as she traced where a bit of material was cracking from the roof. She dropped the ball quietly onto her duvet and pressed her hand against the chunk of disintegrating plaster until…

“Did that just… _move?_ ” She questioned herself as she pushed up again.

Indeed, as she pressed up, the ceiling paint chipped and plaster dust dropped on her face making her cough and sputter as she retracted her hand and jumped down. “Blech! Alright, I wonder…”

She rifled through her knapsack until she found her penknife; flicking it open and jumping back onto the mattress, picking at the crack in the ceiling as the white dust continued to fall in her face.

The knife slipped through the crack and Evelyn felt around for the least resistance as she followed the break, carving out a small square shape before she slowly settled the knife down on her bedside table and brushed the plaster from her eyelashes and face. “Alright, Mister Mystery Door, where do you lead?” She pressed up on the cut out square and it resisted her, but her curiosity was insatiable and she decided to try again.

She bent her knees and bounced on the mattress several times; knocking the panel up with every jump until she heard a dusty _crack_ and the trap door swung open. Dust and cobwebs and God knew what else fluttered down from the ceiling and onto her face and bed. She sputtered as she tried to wipe it all away and her face brightened as she looked up into the dark hole above her bed. “Since when have we had an attic? Oh, that’s brilliant!”

She jumped down from her bed and pulled out her largest suitcase, laying it flat on her mattress as she turned to her book case and pulled the largest volumes she could, throwing them in lines in the bag. When she finally filled it to the top, she closed the lid and climbed on top of it, feeling it sway and dip into the mattress, but finding it sturdy enough to hold her weight, “Perfect!”

She bent back and grabbed her torch, straightening herself to find her head and shoulders fitting through the itty bitty door. She coughed as the dust was moved about and she shined the torch into the small opening. Years of dust caked the wooden floor and cobwebs ran rampant in every corner and she huffed in disappointment at the empty room until her light caught a glimpse of a little moving box in the far corner.

“Gotcha!” She whispered to herself as she placed the torch down and hauled herself through the door. Her wide hips caught awkwardly on the square door and she found her cheeks flushing in humiliation as she had to shimmy to pull herself up. She sat with her legs dangling in the opening and popped her thigh, “I’m obviously going to have to get back into running, huh?”

She chuckled to herself as she picked her torch back up and shined it on the little box in the corner. Curiosity burned at every edge of her mind as she pulled her legs up and crawled across the disgusting floor over to it, crossing her legs and staring at the box as she decided whether or not to open it.

“Well it _could_ be a bomb,” she reasoned with herself. “Or it could just be a box. In a really creepy attic that’s been locked for as long as I can remember? Hmm, it’s totally probably a bomb.”

She shined the light on the edge of the lid and traced it with her fingertips, searching for any strings or tripwires that she might set off by opening it. Her stomach churned with anticipation as she glanced back at the hole of light to her side and she hummed in irritation, “Alright, well if I open it, it might be a bomb, but if I don’t open it, the curiosity is going to drive me insane. Open it is!”

She sucked in a deep breath and held it as one fingertip flipped the lid off of the cardboard box and bumped onto the dusty floor. She held her breath a little longer and kept her eyes pinched tight as she listened for any ticking or gas or anything that might lead her to expect immediate death. She peeled open one eye and exhaled loudly in frustration.

“Papers? That’s it? _Papers_? Oh how _boring_!” She hollered quietly, shining her torch on the papers in question. She rolled her eyes, “Really? No pirate’s gold or secret materials or… wait…” She paused as she saw a familiar face printed on the top page. “What’s this?”

She narrowed her eyes as she shined a light on the documents and began to read aloud, “ _Kazakhstan; thirteenth of December two-thousand and twelve.”_

 _That’s before I was even born,_ she thought to herself as she read on.

 _“Artyom_ _Baizanov- seriously?_ How do you even say that? _Member of ‘Charlotte’s Web’ two-thousand-four to present. Eliminated_.” She crinkled her nose, “ _Eliminated_? What does that even mean?”

She slid the paper over and found folder after folder stacked upon each other, begging to be read in time and she decided to oblige.

She plucked up a file and flipped it open, noticing a dark-haired man pictured in a crowd at what looked like an incredibly popular train station. She pulled the torch closer to the page and gasped as she made out the prominent cheekbones in the blurry CCTV picture. She traced the face with a fingertip and she breathed out a name in astonishment.

“ _Dad_?”

 

***

 

Sherlock hissed as he dropped a milliliter of acid onto the frail skin of the disembodied ear and scribbled down notes that would make no sense to anyone but himself. He barely registered the sound of heavy steps on the stairs and couldn’t be bothered to look up until a terribly heavy stack of paper and folders thumped down on the table, nearly knocking over his experiment.

“Oh, for God’s Sakes! What _now_?” He snapped as he lifted his gaze and froze.

Evelyn stood hard as a stone in front of him, flushed, and breathing incredibly hard. He furrowed his brow as he tried to decipher the problem.

_Flushed, irritated. At what? Eyes narrowed, at me? Hands in fists, trembling. Entire body quivering. Oh she is quite angry indeed. God, she’s filthy! Wherever did she get so dirty? Red eyes. Crying? Evelyn doesn’t cry over such petty drivel. Dirt around her mouth and cheeks. She covered her own mouth. Out of shock or anger? Her hair is an absolute mess! Is that paint? No, plaster. Plaster? Where in the world would she get mixed up in plaster and dust? Oh._

He felt a moment of emptiness in his chest as his heart skipped a beat and he looked down at the papers presented to him.

_Oh God._

He inhaled sharply and could feel the blood drain from his face as he jerked his head back towards her, “Where did you get these?”

She scoffed, “Does it _matter_?” She placed a palm on the stack of folders and grimaced. “What. Is. This?”

Sherlock stood to his full height and placed his palms on the table, “Evelyn, what did you read?”

“All of it!” She cried out scrubbing a hand at her flushed face. “Dad, _tell_ me you _didn’t_ do this.”

“Evelyn, I will not lie to you,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, sighing. “You need to understand what all of this means.”

“What all of this _means_?” She cried out, stepping towards the papers and spreading three files open on the table. “Greta Andersen, Germany, _Eliminated_. Kristoff Ipatyev, Russia, _Eliminated_. Antonio Vazquez, Brazil, _Eliminated_.” She splayed her hands on the papers and sucked in a deep breath, attempting to settle her palpitating heart. “Dad, what did you _do_?”

Sherlock carded a hand through his hair and pinned her in place with a stern glare, “Evelyn you weren’t ever meant to see that.”

Her eyes widened comically at him and she scoffed, “Does that make it any less real?”

The detective sighed through his nostrils and raised a hand, “Darling, you need to calm down.”

“Calm down?!” She hollered, waving a hand dramatically at the papers strewn on the table, “You want me to _calm down_? How can I calm down knowing the man I’ve loved and respected my entire life is a _murderer_?”

“Now hold on, I am no-”

“You’ve _killed_ people, Dad!”

Sherlock cocked a brow and thinned his lips, “I might remind you that you have done the same.”

Evelyn bristled at the sore spot and scowled, “Not in the same context, Dad. I didn’t go _looking_ for targets! I was keeping you and Daddy _safe_.”

“As I was doing,” he replied plainly. He dragged a hand down his face and huffed at the girl, “Do you know why I disappeared for two years?”

“I don’t _care_!” She bit out, palming the papers again. “Dad, these were _people_! And you- you _killed_ them!”

“Not without good reason, I assure you,” he attempted to pacify her, but it only served to accomplish the opposite.

“Dad, you’re a _detective_!” She said waving a hand at him. “You find people who do this kind of stuff and put them _away_! You’re a hypocrite!”

“I am not, now listen to me,” He said raising a hand to rest on her shoulder as he maneuvered around the table.

She recoiled from his touch and snarled, “Don’t _touch_ me!”

Sherlock retracted is hand and sighed, “I understand that you’re upset-”

“Yes!” She interrupted, navy blue eyes shimmering with angry tears, “Yes, upset is a _really_ good word for it!”

“-but I need you to understand,” he continued, holding his palms in front of him defensively. “I was protecting the people I cared about, Evelyn. I wish it hadn’t been that way, but there is it. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Dad! You _murdered_ people in cold blood!” She grabbed a folder and shoved it at Sherlock. “Six people! You’ve spilt the blood of _six_ people!”

“Seven,” Sherlock corrected, gripping the folder with long fingers as he met her exasperated glare, “If you are going to accuse me of crime at least do it correctly.”

“I _trusted_ you!” She cried as a line of clean fluid cut a path on her dirty cheek. “I _trusted_ you and _respected_ you and _admired_ you and all my life, I’ve just wanted to be like the Great Sherlock Holmes so I could make you proud!”

She slid her hand over the table and flung the papers across the floor, “But is _this_ what that leads to? Is this what my future hold for me? Are you the man who kills in cold blood or are you the man who helped raise me? I’m confused!”

Sherlock chest tightened with her statement and chilled with her accusation, “Darling, please, it’s not what it looks like-”

“Famous words-”

“Let me _speak_!” He hollered, his baritone booming in the sitting area and stunning her into silence. Sherlock straightened himself and regained his composure in a sharp inhalation before his silver blue eyes pierced her. “Evelyn Mary Watson, you are jumping to conclusions and before you throw stones you need to understand what happened. I was protecting my family, Evelyn. Not unlike how you did, only on a much grander scale.”

“So what? You just shoot everyone who gives you a cross look?” She spat. “That’s _not_ who I want to be! I want to be someone who works for justice and doing what’s right! Why did you do this?”

The words cut him deep and he chewed his lip, “This was long before you were even a twinkle in your mother’s eye, as they would say it. I was forced into hiding by a madman who threatened the lives of the people I loved. I did what I had to.” He lowered his gaze and sighed before looking back up to her. “I am no hero, Evelyn; you must know that by now.”

“But you were _mine_!” She bawled and her voice cracked on the possessive term. Sherlock seemed shocked at the admission and she hiccupped, “You and Daddy have _always_ been my heroes! I’ve only ever wanted to be like you both!” She grimaced and gestured to the papers on the tabletop. “But how can I believe in someone who goes against everything he’s ever taught me? Does Daddy even _know_ about any of this?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and shook his head honestly, “He knows vague details. Nothing specific, though.”

“You kept this from your _husband_?” She questioned incredulously.

“He understands what had to be done,” he reaffirmed sternly. “He’s an Army Captain. He only needed my confirmation that it had been taken care of and he accepted it, as _you_ should.”

“No!” She cried out as he reached for her again. “God, does this even _bother_ you? Seven people’s blood on your hands.”

“I did what I had to do, Evelyn. I was in a war and I did the best I could with what I had.”

“You hunted these people down and _executed_ them! That’s not a war; that’s _murder_! They didn’t even have a chance to protect themselves!”

“What would you have preferred me do, then?” He questioned sarcastically, cocking an irritated brow. “Send them an RSVP? ‘ _Oh hello there! Just stopping by to end your pathetic life before you kill my landlady! Cheers!_ ’ You’re being tedious.”

“At least I’m _honest_!” She bit back, cheeks flushing bright crimson.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and carded another hand through his hair, “And I am _honestly_ bored with this argument. Does it really matter if they saw me or not? Did I really need to give them the opportunity to kill me when-”

“Maybe you _should_ have!” She yelled, completely out of character and spiteful.

“Now you just hold on one moment-”

“Is this why you don’t want me to leave?” She spat. “You’re worried about people like _you_ coming to hurt me?”

“Evelyn, I am nothing like these _monsters_ ,” he said harshly, gritting his teeth.

“Oh? Please enlighten me! Because from where I’m standing, I can’t tell the difference!”

She immediately had the intense urge to clap her dirty hands over her mouth and she inwardly cringed. _Oh God. I did NOT mean to say that. Oh bugger, I did NOT mean for that to come out. I don’t mean that at ALL._

Sherlock’s words caught on his tongue and his entire body seemed to blanche, an expression of pain slipping across his featured before he regained control of his composure and straightened to his full height and lifting his chin defiantly.

She winced as she saw the blank mask of empty expression cover his features. Hollowed out cheeks, silver slits for eyes and pursed lips; all indicative that her father had been seriously wounded and was doing his best to not express it.

_Oh dear. What have I done?_

His deep, flat voice erupted from thinned lips.

“You were so very keen to leave earlier. I suggest you take advantage of this opportunity to do so.”

“Dad, I’m-” She tried but was immediately cut off.

“ _Now_ ,” he stated curtly, icy blue eyes sharp and unforgiving as they bored into Evelyn.

The young woman bowed her head and gathered the papers slowly from the floor and table into a pile and carried them to the doorway where she turned and met her father’s cold stare.

She opened her mouth to speak but Sherlock jerked up his hand and silenced her instantly; the vicious glare sending a cool oily feeling into her stomach as she turned back around and silently marched down the stairs. She picked up her knapsack from the hall and tossed the documents into them before quietly shutting the door to 221 Baker Street and slinking into the melancholy weather of London.

_You’re an idiot, Evelyn Mary Watson. You’re a bloody Idiot._

 

***

 

The once Auburn-headed man slipped his key into the lock and twisted once before a screen to his right slid open and scanned his retina; the screen glowing green before unlatching the door and allowing him inside.

He sighed and rested his dripping umbrella in the humble stand and hooked his set of keys on the wall before the quiet thrum of a piano set his nerves on edge.

 _Although it is unnerving that someone is in the house, I doubt an assassin would serenade me before doing his job_ , he mused as he flattened his three-piece and silently padded through the free-standing townhouse tile floor.

Sherlock had always believed his brother to be as dramatic and flamboyant as himself, but Mycroft Holmes actually had taken the liberty of a humble abode in contrast of his vast funds and power. He had always admired the beauty and security of smaller homes and appreciated a grounding atmosphere when he returned from preventing World War God-Knew-How-Many at his office.

As his leather soles rolled against the tile, the Steinway Grand Piano pulsed a rather melancholy tune; _Piano Sonata No_. _14_ _in_ _C_ - _Sharp Minor_ by Beethoven, undeniably.

He cocked a brow and followed the dark tune reverberating in the air as he attempted to figure out who would be playing such a song. _Moonlight Sonata_. _Hmm._

The intruder obviously was unaware of his presence as they continued to place tender strokes on the ivory keys and as Mycroft peered around the doorway into his piano room, he could see why.

Dirty golden curls cascaded over a rod-straight back ( _perfect posture, delightful)_ as his niece swayed in time with the pulsing tempo. Mycroft allowed himself a thin smile as he watched her pale fingers coax the instrument into life and her closed eyes ignored everything in her surroundings, allowing her to succumb completely to her music.

The wheat colored room augmented the despondency of the tune and the dark greens and browns of his collections of ancient texts absorbed the superfluous volume so that only a straight and even tone echoed in the room. The older Holmes pulled his jacket tight over his frame as he wordlessly watched her head bob as she continued into the upsurge before dropping down to a slow thrum of treble and then into another deep crescendo of bass as she made it further into the song.

His younger brother had continually attempted to convince her to take up the violin, but it never seemed as though she would oblige him. Her heart seemed drawn to another type of string instrument and Mycroft was more than happy to highlight his superior skills over his brother in his area of expertise. The piano, he thought, required intense amounts of patience and self-control ( _neither of which his brother had_ ) and Mycroft had delighted in excelling ( _petty as that may be_ ) and directing Evelyn in that proficiency.

Mycroft opened his eyes and pulled himself from his reverie as he heard a sniffle and glanced over to Evelyn’s face pinching tight with emotion before the song ended prematurely and she scrubbed her face on a rather dirty sleeve.

“You’re dripping on the carpet, you know,” Mycroft teased plainly. The girl gasped and her head shot up to the unexpected noise before she stood abruptly and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Uncle Mycroft! I’m- I’m sorry; I got caught in a little bit of a downpour on my way over. I- I’ll clean it up. I promise.”

He smiled, a grin that actually touched his cerulean blue eyes, normally reserved for dealing with his niece, and shook his head, “That won’t be necessary, love. I’ll have Matilda take care of it when she returns.”

Evelyn craned her head side to side and grimaced, “Where _is_ your housekeeper?”

Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly and leaned against the doorframe, “On holiday. Down in Sussex to see her son, I believe.”

“Ah,” she mumbled, eye focusing on her uncle’s shoes, “I hear it’s rather nice this time of year.”

“Yes, I am sure that it is,” he agreed. “Not that I do not truly enjoy your company, Evelyn, but how _did_ you get in here?”

The blonde girl flushed and rubbed the toe of her shoe in the carpet, “There are more ways than one to get into a house as long as you’re determined, Uncle Mycroft.”

He cocked a brow again and smiled wryly as he gestured at the piano, “Very well. You may continue if you wish.”

The young woman nodded stiffly and resituated herself at the instrument and sucked in a deep breath before placing her fingers back on the ivory keys. Mycroft stepped forward and joined her on the long bench.

He had inherited this piano from his mother and she had insisted on the extended bench so that her two sons could play together when they were younger and less obstinate. Mycroft grinned at the memory of a seven-year-old Sherlock jumping back and forth between the bass and treble positions of “ _Heart and Soul_ ” as he had to keep the song flowing even with the sudden absence of hands only to return on the opposite part.

“I’ve always loved this song,” Evelyn murmured over the now softer music as Mycroft settled in next to her.

“You always did choose Beethoven over more _refined_ composers,” he replied softly.

“Dad says his music is brash and crude,” she said as she chewed on her cheek. “I like him though. I feel like his music always has stories to tell.” She turned her head slightly to catch his creased eyes, “Do you hear stories in music or is it just me?”

Mycroft smiled and slid a finger on one of the lowest D without pressing it down, “Music is art, my dear. It is a difference experience for everyone involved.” He tilted his head as Evelyn’s fingers slid on the keys and pressed on through the tune, “For example, your father experiences emotions and sees colors of sentiments when he plays as it is really the only time he allows them free. I, on the other hand, see memories and ideas as those are what I cherish and adore.”

Evelyn smiled and lowered her gaze back to the keys, “I hear stories. I don’t know why, though. Maybe it’s because I like reading.”

Her uncle lifted an elegant hand and placed it on her shoulder blade, “What story are you telling now?”

Evelyn smirked and sighed, “When I hear or play this song, I hear someone lost.” She enunciated the point by striking the harsh bass notes with force. “I hear them consumed by secrets and problems and darkness that they can’t escape from and so they wrap themselves in it and it becomes them. Their dark experiences overshadow them and they lose themselves entirely.”

The light treble made its appearance and she chewed on her lip, “Then this part, this is a friend, a loved one, someone who cares for whatever reason, and they see this person, this lower line struggling. So they ask to help.” The deep notes bite back at the upper notes almost rudely, “But the first person has been hurt for so long, they strike back at the friend trying to help them. They don’t think that they can be helped and it doesn’t compute when someone actually puts forth the effort because they don’t think they’re worth it.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed at the insightfulness of his niece and he urged her to continue, “Go on.”

She half-smiled and pressed on the light treble notes that began to take possession of the song, “But no matter how hard they fight back against them, the friend continues to press forward. Almost if he’s saying, ‘Please, let me help you. I know you’re lost and you need someone, so take my hand. You don’t have to do this alone.’ As the darker notes come in, it’s like the original character is considering the possibility. He’s like, ‘I have this secret; this dark thing. Nobody wants this. Nobody wants _me_ or at least they won’t when they find out what I am.’ And yet the friend continues to try to convince them with little light notes, ‘I’m here. You’re not alone.’”

She smiled as she pressed forth with the song and the two hands battle out for control of the keys, “Here’s where they fight. Almost as if the friend is gripping his wrists and forcing him to accept his care. Like, ‘I love you. I’m not going to allow yourself to do this anymore.’ And they continue this battle of wills until finally…”

The song transformed into a mixture of light and dark, neither one dominating, and neither one wholly gone. “They reach an agreement; a truce, if you will, and the character full of secrets extends his hands and the friend takes him and leads him away from his shadows.” The last measure pulsed, steady and soft, “And they show each other what it really means to be accepted.”

She chewed on her lip as she retracted her hands from the keys and placed them in her lap. Mycroft’s brows were raised in astonishment and his Ice-Man heart warmed with her tale, “That’s quite intuitive, Evelyn. Very impressive, indeed.”

She scoffed, “Terribly sentimental, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft laughed and nodded in agreement, “Ad nauseam.” His bright blue eyes creased as he wrapped an arm around her and she leaned into his side with a sigh. “Although I do so enjoy these little drop-ins, I must ask the reason.”

“Isn’t it enough for me to stop by and see my favorite Uncle?” She quipped with a crinkled nose.

“Oh, I _suppose_ that’s enough,” he teased back, quirking an eyebrow at the girl to his side, “but it wouldn’t be entirely honest would it?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly, inhaling the spiced fragrance of her uncle’s cologne. “I did something terrible.”

“Were there any witnesses?” He asked seriously, his grip ever so slightly tightening on her arm.

“Wait- what? No,” she said chuckling. “No, Uncle Mycroft, I didn’t mean anything like _that_.”

“Just as well,” he said plainly, giving her a thin smile. “What happened?”

“I got in a fight with Dad.”

“You and half of London, my dear,” he said lightly and she chuckled weakly.

“Yes, I suppose so, but I don’t think half of London made my Dad look like that.”

“Elaborate.”

“Well, I found these papers,” She started, pulling herself straight up and turning on the bench to face her uncle. “Well, let me start over, I kind of threw something at the ceiling and a bit of the plaster broke off so I got curious and discovered we had an attic or well a little tiny room above mine.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he deduced the path the explanation would take.

“And I was super curious so I climbed in and found this box full of government documents that said terrible, terrible things!” She held her palms out in front of her and pinched her cheeks, “So I confronted Dad about them all and he didn’t seem upset about it at all. Said he, ‘Did what he had to do’, or something like that.”

“Evelyn, I know what documents you’re referring to,” Mycroft said as Evelyn bent down to grab her bag and pull out the papers. “I gave them to him.”

“You _what_?”

“I do so hate repeating myself, love,” he said coolly, placing a palm on the bag in her hands. “I gave your father those documents. Before you get upset will you allow me to explain?”

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears but she nodded slowly and handed the bag over to her uncle. He stood and carefully closed the lid of the Grand Piano and slipped the documents from her bag, placing them delicately on the smooth surface.

“A long time ago, there was a man named James Moriarty. I’m sure you’ve heard at least a little about him and his relations to your fathers, no?”

She nodded as he flipped open a few of the folders and continued, “He played this game and he would continually throw your fathers in danger to see how they would react.” He quirked a brow, “He even strapped your Daddy in a Semtex- lined jacket once.”

Her chest tightened at the image in her mind’s eye and she inhaled deeply.

“Eventually, he had the whole of London believing my brother was a fraud and murderer and much to Detective Inspector Lestrade’s chagrin, the whole of New Scotland Yard was out looking for him. Both of your fathers went into hiding until Sherlock met Moriarty on the top of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

He placed a palm down on the smooth black surface and sighed, “He was given an ultimatum. Either he would have to end his life and jump from the building or Moriarty would execute your Daddy, Mrs. Hudson, and D.I. Lestrade. Obviously, he made his choice.”

“But I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” Evelyn chimed in softly, almost as if she were afraid of her own voice. “James Moriarty isn’t any of these people.”

“That is very true,” he replied. “How many files are here?”

“Six.”

“Correct. Now if you were a crime lord that had anchors in nearly every country in the world, what would you have in place just in case something went wrong?”

She furrowed her brow as she stood and placed herself next to her uncle facing the documents, “A back up plan?”

Blue eyes narrowed at the splayed out papers, “Precisely.”

“So these were…?” She asked on the up tone, still not quite comprehending the entire situation.

“Yes. These were their assassins. Two for each target in case it ever came to be that Sherlock Holmes survived his fall from Saint Bartholomew’s hospital.”

“Oh.” What else was there for her to say?

“Every one of these people had their crosshairs on either your father, Mrs. Hudson, or D.I. Lestrade. I helped my brother when I could keep track of him, but Sherlock did all of the leg work, if you will. He spent two years destroying Moriarty’s empire and has saved countless lives doing so.”

She wished the ground would swallow her up, but it had no such plans in mind and she continued to exist in the air next to the older Holmes, “Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“Seven,” she murmured to herself as she looked up to the man at her side. “He said seven people.”

“Ah,” Mycroft vocalized as if it were last night’s football scores. “He must be alluding to Charles Magnussen.”

“Who’s that?”

“A man your father killed in order to protect John and Mary Watson, I believe.”

“Oh.”

“Quite.”

“I inadvertently called him a monster,” she admitted shyly after a moment of silence as she allowed the information to seep in, flushing in embarrassment. “I was just so confused and mad; I yelled at him and said some truly awful things.”

Mycroft gathered the documents and stacked them up for her disposal, “Speak when you are angry and you will make the greatest speech you will ever regret.”

“Obviously,” she agreed as she wrapped her arms around herself. Her uncle’s house seemed chilly, but she felt her skin sticky with perspiration and rain.

Mycroft noticed the unnatural action and placed a cool hand to her forehead, twisting his lips in a grimace, “You’re a bit warm, darling. Let’s get you in bed.” He ushered her towards the stairs and into an upstairs room where she had spent many a night as a child, reading and experimenting much to her uncle’s chagrin.

“I think I should still have a set of clothes for you _somewhere_ ,” he held out the last word as he rifled through the vanity set drawers until he found the one he was looking for. “Ah! You haven’t grown much since you were last here; they should still fit.”

“Thank you, Uncle Mycroft,” she said quietly as she pressed her face into his suit, the heat of her skin prickling his as he wrapped a single arm around her and squeezed gently.

“Of course, dear. I’ll contact your father and let him know you’re here.” He pulled away and tucked a stray strand of damp golden hair behind her hot ears, “Get some rest. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

She nodded and the older Holmes quietly shut her door and paced back down the stairway.

 _My work is never done_ , he thought as he slipped out his phone and dialed in the oh-so-familiar numbers.

As he expected, the also oh-so-familiar snippy tone bit at him as his intended contact picked up the line.

“What do you want?”

“Hello brother dear,” he said coolly. “I think I have something of yours.”

 

***

 

John shivered as he raked his hand through his hair and sprayed the chilled rainwater around the vestibule of 221 Baker Street. August had brought with it an unseasonably immense amount of rainfall and it seemed as if he would have to swim to work by next week if it didn’t clear up eventually. He peeled off his jacket and shook the water from it before bouncing up the stairs.

It had been nice to finally get back to the surgery after their little “holiday” and John could feel his chest burning with contentment as he slipped in the door and hung up his coat on the hanger.

“Blimey it’s still pouring out there!” He called jovially, carding his hand through his hair again before turning towards the sitting area. “I think we’re gonna have to invest in a paddle boat soon!”

Silence greeted his teasing and the warm feelings in his chest disappeared and were replaced with dread. He spotted the detective curled up to his side on his ancient green chair, knees pulled up to his chest and a short glass of amber liquid suspended tranquilly by elegant fingers around the rim.

 _Shit,_ John’s mind supplied, _Sherlock never drinks._

In his left hand was a small metal picture frame containing a ten year old candid photograph Lestrade had taken on a visit to their flat on a boring summer day many, many moons ago. Sherlock’s face bloomed in a smile that showed every tooth and completely crinkled his eyes as he looked down at the blonde-haired-blue-eyed limpet attached to his long leg, dragging as he tried to walk across the floor. His blue silk housecoat billowed out like a cape as he raised his arms in an attempt to maintain balance as he stepped forward with the extra weight wrapped around his ankle and in the background was John perched at the table half-covering his beaming smile with his hand as his other hand wrapped around a tea mug.

 _Sincere candid happiness_ , Sherlock thought as he rubbed a thumb over the pixelated table through the glass. He’d never actually voiced his appreciation to the D.I. but he’d found an immediate fondness for the photo the second he’d seen it on his phone screen. He had it developed the next day and it had found its home next to Billy on the mantelpiece ever since.

John moved slowly forward and rested his hand on his own chair, giving his husband ample space to escape if need be, “Sherlock, are you all right?”

The man in question met John’s gaze for a moment with dark eyes and nodded before blinking slowly and lowering his gaze to the ground, shaking his head as he changed his mind. Sherlock had learned long ago that dishonesty never got him anywhere with the good doctor, so he relinquished his defenses, “Bit not good.”

Sensing his detective’s distress, John padded over to him and knelt down before him, gripping Sherlock’s bent knee in one palm, expression sympathetic and open, “What’s happened, love?” He looked around the flat again and towards the ceiling noticing the eerie silence, “I don’t see Eevee; did you two get in a fight?”

The detective nodded his head slowly and when he parted his lips, the sound was barely enough to escape the Cupid’s bow, “She left about an hour or two ago. I think perhaps to go see that Jeffery boy.”

John smirked and plucked the drink from Sherlock’s fingertips, placing it gently on the floor away from both of them, “You mean Jeremy?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around his thin chest, clutching the small picture frame in the embrace, “Irrelevant. Anyways I wouldn’t expect to see her again till quite later.” He raised his eyebrows as he kept his gaze on the yellow smiley face that Evelyn had repainted with more detailed features when Mrs. Hudson had come up to re-paper the damaged wall in their absence, “They have to _gossip,_ I’m sure.”

“ _Okay_ then,” John chuckled warmly and removed his hand from Sherlock’s knee and placed it square on his chest, right above the wooden frame, “Since we’ve got the place all to ourselves, why don’t you tell me what’s got you so upset?”

The tension in the detective’s shoulders seemed to ease at John’s touch and he sighed, “What day is it?”

John quirked a brow and frowned, “Uh, I think it’s the seventh of August. Why?”

Sherlock thinned his lips and lowered his gaze to the tops of his bony knees, seemingly avoiding John’s gaze at all costs, “Do you know what next week is?”

John pursed his lips as he thought about it, his thumb rubbing circles in Sherlock’s housecoat until he finally realized. He chuckled and brought shining navy eyes up to smile at his husband, “Ah. Evelyn’s birthday, yeah?”

The detective nodded curtly, still not raising his gaze, “She’ll be eighteen, John; an adult in every legal sense of the word.”

The doctor laughed harshly and raked a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck, “God! When did _that_ happen? I feel like just yesterday I was plucking the glass from her first broken flask out of her hands! Christ, I can’t believe she’s already _eighteen_!”

John smiled and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, slowly bringing his to look at the doctor on his knees until deep navy locked in on bright cerulean drenched in melancholy, “Are you having growing pains, Sherlock? She’s _not_ just going to disappear, you know. She’s going to Uni a cab ride away. We’ll still see her, love. Don’t worry.”

Sherlock’s troubled gaze searched John’s face before dropping and he sighed, shaking his head and John’s hand, “That’s- that’s not it, John.” He shrugged the shoulder closest to John, “Besides, she’ll have to come home periodically; she’s too fond of my lab equipment to actually use the university-owned ones.”

“That’s probably very true,” The doctor smiled and cocked his head to the side, furrowing his brow, “So what is it, then? What did you two argue about?”

Sherlock chewed on his lip and slouched farther down in the chair to where John actually had to look down to meet his face. “I love Evelyn, John,” he stated plainly, gripping the frame against his chest. “Before you and before her, I didn’t know I could feel this much- oh, I don’t know- _muchness_ for anything. Is that even a word? I’ve heard it before. It seems to fit. Anyways, it’s rather like when I met you, I felt my,” he gestured vaguely at his chest and sighed, “I felt whatever it is grow and I thought I had finally reached the epitome of sentiment until you called me at two in the morning that night and I ended up with a little baby in my hands.” He raised his hands and examined his palms as he rambled, “I didn’t know I could feel that much, John. Her little hand gripped my finger and I felt like I was falling all over again in a completely different kind of way and I’ve never understood it and it doesn’t make any sense at all because she wasn’t even an hour old yet and I didn’t know anything about her but the moment she smiled at me I didn’t want to ever let her go again.”

John quirked a half-smile and rubbed Sherlock’s cheek softly, “Sherlock, that’s what being a father is all about.”

He jumped as Sherlock suddenly twisted in his seat and gripped his head, ivory fingers slipping though ebony curls as the picture slid to the carpet in front of the chair, “But John, that wasn’t supposed to be _me_!” He raised his gaze as John’s shocked expression and sighed again, “I was never meant to be that. All of my life I’ve been living proof that I would never make a father. I’m a drug addict. I’m married to a _man_! Biologically, socially; _any_ way that you look at it, I should have _never_ been in this role.”

John furrowed his brow and shook his head, “I- I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”

Sherlock continued as though he hadn’t heard John interjection, “But even so, I ended up with a little newborn that trusted me without knowing who I was and loved me and I adore her _so much!_ I _thought_ I had given my entire heart to you, but it’s almost as if a new one sprung up to replace it when I first heard her laugh. I have never been so- I don’t know- fulfilled- I guess? I never imagined I could mean that much to anyone to not only love me, but to call me ‘Dad’ and ‘husband’ and ‘love’ and ‘grumpy old man’ and it’s so wonderful and beautiful and perfect and it never should have been _me_.”

The doctor resituated to sit cross-legged, plucking the photograph from the floor and clasping it in his hands in his lap, “You’ve made an amazing father _and_ husband, Sherlock. Anyone could see that.”

Sherlock suddenly cast John the _Do-Keep-Up-John_ look and retracted his hands from his hair, “John, that never should have been my role, don’t you understand? I stole it. I _stole_ that role from _her_. She married you and loved you and you loved her and she was _taken_ from you.” He shook his head and waved a hand dramatically, “She deserved this. _All_ of this. This was meant to be _her_ life with a loving husband and brilliant daughter, not mine. I never deserved any of this.”

Realization dawned on the doctor and his heart warmed with the confession, “Oh, _Sherlock_.”

“John, I just- I,” he lifted his head and blinked profusely as if fighting back liquid emotion, “I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without you and without Evelyn in it. It _terrifies_ me that I only received this because someone had to die for it and I can’t honestly tell myself that I wish that it hadn’t been that way. What does that say about me, John?” He furrowed his brow while keeping his head up and away from John, “I shouldn’t want to say that I am glad that happened, but I _am_. I don’t understand what these sentiments are. I cheated someone out of a perfect life and took it for my own. It’s selfish and cruel and terrible and yet I can’t make the feelings go away!”

He jumped to his feet and nearly toppled the doctor over as he began to pace and ramble, “But what if that hadn’t happened, John? What if she had pulled through? What would we have? Evelyn wouldn’t be nearly as brazen and stupid and willing to throw herself in the middle of danger just to understand it like me. (“ _Sherlock.”)_ She would have never been shot; she wouldn’t have her life put on the line time and time again because she’s curious! You would have had your life-long dream of a wife and children- I’m sure you would have had more- (“ _Sherlock, love._ ”) and a house and a stable life and you would have someone taking care of _you_ instead of you taking care of me!”

He turned quickly on his heel and his voice cracked, “I am a virus, John! I infect everything! _(“Oh, come on, Sherlock.”_ ) I contaminated an innocent little girl with an insatiable thirst for danger and curiosity and she’s been plagued with Moriarty and crime her entire life! For God’s sakes, someone might still be out there searching for her and I can’t even keep her safe! ( _“You’re being ridiculous.”)_ I tainted _you_ by forcing you to look after a broken drug addict and stealing your life away from you and consuming you both with my selfish desires and made them yours. You both would have been _safe_ and _content_ with your lives if I hadn’t intervened!”

John picked himself up from the floor, gripping the photo in his hand, and stood directly in Sherlock’s path of destruction until the detective nearly collided with him. In his astonishment, the doctor wrapped his arms around him and pulled him tight against his body, feeling the nervous trembling of the taller man and he smiled against the housecoat, “I love you, Sherlock.”

The detective’s pounding heart beat against his own as he pressed his lips into Sherlock’s neck and felt the frantic pulse thrum in his throat, “You know that, don’t you? I’m sure I don’t say it enough, but I _love_ you, Sherlock.”

The detective sighed and rested his cheek against John’s temple, “Why?”

John smiled and nipped at the pale expanse of skin playfully, “I am not about to stroke your massive ego, Sherlock. You know damn well why.” He lifted his head and pulled his arm from behind the taller man, “But if you must have a clue...”

He presented the photo to Sherlock and smiled, “Look at this, Sherlock Holmes. What do you see?”

The detective narrowed his eyes as if asking for clarification and John sighed, “Okay, I’ll start. I see a little girl playing with the greatest man and father I have ever met. I think he was born a grumpy old man but when she’s involved, he turns into the fun-loving pirate he used to be.” He winked at Sherlock and continued, “I see a broken man whose leg doesn’t work and can’t sleep at night unless he’s wrapped in long arms finally finding his reason to live again. I see three people who are decent on their own, but when together can be exceptional.”

John leaned up and pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips, pressing the photograph into his large palm, “I see my family, Sherlock. A family I would kill for; a family I would die for; a family I wouldn’t trade anything in the _world_ for. I love _you_ , Sherlock. _You_ are my husband and _you_ are our daughter’s father. Don’t worry about things you can’t change and have no business distressing about.” He chewed his cheek and sighed, “Mary was a good woman, brilliant actually, and I’m sure she would have made an exceptional mother as well. But love, she was _killed_ and regardless of whether it was right or wrong or if you were there or not to help pick up the pieces, that’s how it is. There’s nothing anyone could do to change that. And you stepped up and helped me raise this little girl when I had no clue what I was going to do. _You_ did that. You deserve every bit of happiness and love you get and probably more.” He pressed the photograph into Sherlock’s palm and sighed, “Please don’t ever think otherwise.”

Sherlock looked between the picture and his husband a few time before sighing and gripping the photograph against his chest, “Alright.”

John smiled and softly clapped Sherlock’s arm, “Now what brought all this up? You’ve never felt guilty about raising Evelyn before.”

“I don’t feel _guilty_ about raising her!” Sherlock suddenly snapped, earning him a glare from the doctor. He huffed and slouched down on the couch behind him, gripping the photo in his lap, “Evelyn and I got into an argument.”

“About what?” John prodded as she nestled in at Sherlock’s side on the soft cushion.

Sherlock sighed and traced a thumb over the wooden frame, his voice small and meek.

“She thinks I’m a monster.”

John crinkled his nose and shook his head, “I’m sure that’s not really the case, love.”

“She found my documents, John,” Sherlock reasoned. “Apparently sending her to her room to keep her out of trouble was the exact _opposite_ of what I needed to do.”

John leaned against his husband and took his hand gently, “What documents?”

“From my… well…” He waved his hand in the air, looking for an appropriate term. “Leave of absence,” he settled on. “Mycroft kept tabs on me where he could and gave me the reports as I accomplished my directive. She found them all and read through them.”

“ _Oh_ ,” John vocalized, humming in disgruntled understanding. “So she gets to know what you did and _I_ don’t?” He teased.

“Well, I didn’t _want_ her to find them, John! They were hidden where I didn’t think they’d be discovered. Leave it to her to find them.”

“She’s definitely good at it,” John conceded. “What did they say?”

Sherlock sighed and carded a hand through the wild curls that sprung out in every direction, “They were the files of the assassins I had to target and well… _eliminate_.”

“I see.”

“Needless to say, she was more than a bit perturbed,” Sherlock humphed as he leaned back against the couch.

“Well she _is_ a bit of a drama queen, “John teased, shrugging a bit. “She’ll come around, don’t worry.”

“I said that I was nothing like these monsters and she replied with ‘from where I’m standing, I can’t tell the difference’,” he stated sadly, his gaze downcast.

“Oh, don’t pay her any mind, love,” John soothed, rubbing his husband’s knee quickly before jumping up and setting on the kettle in the kitchen. “She’s a teenage girl; she’s bound to have some cruel lines here and there.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose, “Seriously?”

John smiled, “You’d be surprised. Didn’t you ever deal with them in school?”

Sherlock shrugged and kicked his legs up on the arm of the couch as he laid straight on the cushions, “I didn’t talk to people in school, John. Apparently people aren’t too fond of people who call them out on fornicating in the locker room while they’re bloodying your nose.”

John winced and grimaced as he turned back to his husband, “That’s- that’s awful, Sherlock.”

The detective shrugged against the cushions and closed his eyes, “No matter. I lived through it.”

He was silent for a moment longer before he dragged his hand down his face, “What if I _am_ like that though? I can’t contribute any empathy on behalf of either problem and that feels like a monstrous thing to say.”

John shook his head and smiled, “There’s no use in allotting any sympathy in either situation as one presented a group of assassins and the other is a situation that you had no control over. Don’t lose any sleep over it.”

Sherlock’s mobile began to vibrate before a shrill tune cut through the air of their flat and he growled as he rolled over on his side and picked it up from the coffee table.

He groaned as he answered John’s unvoiced question, “ _Mycroft_.”

A long finger slid the answer key and he bit out an irritated hello, “What do you want?”

An eerily calm and collected voice greeted him with a cryptic answer, “Hello brother dear. I think I have something of yours.”

“I don’t have the patience for you today, Mycroft,” he spat as John fiddled with two mugs and brought them over to the couch.

“I am aware of your caustic mood, little brother, but I would ask that you extend your limited patience for me.”

“I am hanging up in ten seconds if you don’t spit it out,” he sneered.

“That’s fine,” Mycroft replied and Sherlock could practically hear his smug smile over the line. “She’s a slight fever anyways; I don’t mind her staying the night.”

Sherlock suddenly spun around on the furniture and he nearly knocked John over as he placed the cup on the coffee table, “Evelyn’s there? _Why?_ ”

“Why is she here or why is she not there? Do be more specific,” the line said smugly and Sherlock considered throwing his phone across the room.

“Your stupidity is mind-numbing, really,” he spat out, rubbing his temples.

John plucked the phone from Sherlock’s hand as the detective groaned and slouched back on the couch, “Hello Mycroft. Is Evelyn all right?”

His brother-in-law seemed not as chagrined to speak to the doctor and the conversation continued smoothly, “Quite, John. She’s up in her room now, hopefully sleeping. She was rather upset about the row with her father as you can imagine.”

John smiled at the irritated detective, “I think the sentiment is mutual. We’ll stop by in a little bit and retrieve her. Thank you, Mycroft.”

He hung up the phone and shifted on his hip as he smirked at the detective, “Oh come off it, you drama queen.”

Sherlock’s affronted expression nearly sent him into a fit of giggles but he extended a hand to the detective and smiled politely, “Let’s go fix what you two broke.”

“Tedious.”

“Necessary.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand and groaned as he pulled himself up, “That doesn’t make it any less tiresome.”

John rolled his eyes and popped his husband’s plush arse as he passed him to change clothes, “No, but you still need to do it.”

He _oomfed_ as a pillow nailed him square in the head and he scowled, “It’s not _my_ fault that you two little girls can’t keep the cat fights to a minimum!”

The detective hummed irately and John tossed the pillow onto the couch as he retrieved his coat from its peg on the wall.

“Dress warmly,” he called to the detective. “It’s nasty business leaving your door in this weather!”

 


	27. Diamond Cuts and Dialogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Just dropping in another chapter for my lovely readers. Life will be changing soon enough as our heroine moves on into Uni and I hope you are as excited as I am to find out exactly what that has in store. Thank you so much for your support and attentions and I appreciate every comment and kudos you throw my way!
> 
> P.S. The song used in this story is from August: Osage Country and was actually performed by Benedict Cumberbatch. Beautiful song- simple and sweet- so check it out!

“I feel like a drowned rat,” Sherlock complained as he walked the short distance from the cab to the small front porch. He shook his shaggy hair like a dog and twisted the curls to wring out the water.

John chuckled as he scrubbed at the short gray hair and sprayed water back onto his husband as they attempted to divest themselves of their saturated jackets and shoes, “Not _my_ fault you couldn’t find a cab for three blocks.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gently unwound his scarf, “I _despise_ getting caught in the rain.”

The doctor smiled as he slid out of his shoes and placed them perpendicular to Mycroft’s door, “When it was pissing like this, my mum would always tell Harry and I that God was crying.” He smirked at the memory, “It was actually really ingenious; Harry and I would immediately clean the house and finish all of our chores to make him happy again.”

“Classical Conditioning,” Sherlock hummed. “Clever.”

John rolled his eyes and chuckled as he picked up his doctor’s bag from where he rested it near the doorway, “Got the job done, didn’t it?”

He straightened his back and knocked thrice on the door until a familiar face pulled it open with a quiet click. Mycroft eyed them both up and down and scowled with disgust, “You’re _dripping_.”

Sherlock groaned, pushing himself through the door and tossing his damp shoes on the floor as he hung his jacket on a peg next to Mycroft’s keys, “Yes, brother mine; it may have escaped you, but it is _raining._ ”

John shook his head and smiled at the older Holmes, “Hello, Mycroft. How’d you do?”

“Well,” Mycroft replied, giving him his best politician’s smile.

“Where’s Eevee?” The doctor queried as he, too, hung up his sopping jacket and padded through the tile in semi-dry socks.

Mycroft’s smile twisted into a tight grimace as he ushered John towards the stairway, “In her room. Her fever has only increased, I’m afraid.”

John pursed his lips as he bounded up the stairs, quietly pushing the door to Evelyn’s designated room as he examined her from afar. He slowly padded over to her bed and pulled the chair from the vanity set over to where she lay curled up on the mattress.

Freshly washed golden locks splayed out in every direction as she lay on her side towards the good doctor, curled up in a tight backwards “S”. One hand dangled off of the bed as the other rest beneath her flushed cheek and John chuckled quietly as he caught a miniscule movement under the sheets: her ankles rubbing together like cricket legs.

He gently placed his hand in her extended one and nearly recoiled from the sensation, “Christ, you’re burning up, little one.”

He grimaced as he pulled out a thermometer and clipped a new cap on it before placing it delicately in her ear. She groaned softly in her sleep as he worked and the little machine _beeped_ softly before he retracted it and read the digital screen.

“Thirty-nine,” he said with a scowl, looking up as Sherlock quietly entered the room. The detective took one hurried glance at the girl in the bed before quickly padding towards the en suite loo to fetch a damp flannel.

“ _Daddy?”_

John looked down as a weak voice interrupted his medical thoughts and he smiled as he brushed the hair from her flushed face, “Yes, love. I’m right here. How are you feeling?”

Her eyes stayed pinched tight as she curled in tighter on herself and frowned. “ _M’sorry,_ ” she mumbled, obviously more asleep than awake. “ _Tell Dad_ … _M’sorry_ …”

John pursed his lips as Sherlock rested a palm on his shoulder and handed him the flannel and a bowl of lukewarm water. He dabbed it on her face and neck and pulled the duvet back down to her hips, leaving a thin sheet covering up to her chin, “Alright, darling. He’s sorry, too. Tell me how you feel.”

A shiver went through her entire frame and she stammered, “ _C-cold.”_

“I know, sweetheart, but we have got to get your fever down, all right?”

She nodded weakly and whimpered unconsciously as John patted away the sweat from her brow. He folded the flannel and draped it over her forehead and slipped from his chair, picking up the backpack near the doorway. Deft fingers pulled loose the zip and he rifled through the littlest pocket until he found his target. He smiled as he pulled the hair elastic from the pocket and padded back to the bed; gathering her damp curls in a messy bun away from her neck and face.

“That should help a bit, love,” he murmured as Sherlock placed himself gently on the side of her bed and patted her flexed thigh. “How long were you out in the rain?”

Her face, ghostly pale save the rosy flush in her cheeks, pinched in a grimace as she coughed into her hand. She moaned quietly as she curled tighter in on herself, her sleepy voice barely slipping from parted lips, “A while.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and turned towards his brother who stood politely at the door, “Did you call me right as she arrived?”

The auburn-tinted hair shifted slightly as he shook his head, “She broke in. Quite impressively, I might add, but I don’t think she’d been here more than a few minutes before I came home myself. I alerted you about half an hour after I was made aware of her break-in.”

The detective furrowed his brow and gently gripped her leg, “Darling, did you _walk_ all the way here?”

The miniscule nod was almost lost to another cough and Sherlock groaned, tucking the thin sheet closer up to her chin and wrapping it snugly around her frame, “ _Evelyn!_ It’s a wonder you didn’t catch your death out there!” He frowned as he eyed the pile of wet clothes on the tile bathroom floor with disdain, “And you barely had anything on! You mustn’t be so reckless.”

John snorted and Sherlock shot him a glare to which he responded, “Sherlock, are _you_ seriously berating her on her attire? Mr. Come-Along-John-Let’s-Get-Locked-In-A-Freezer-Without-Your-Coat?”

Sherlock scowled and rubbed tenderly on her upper arm as her breathing became more infrequent and shallow, “Yes, well she’s a child. I am far more concerned for her well-being than that of a seasoned Army doctor who knows how to take care of himself.”

John raised his hands defensively and smiled, “Alright, alright, no need for that.” He patted Sherlock’s knee gently, eying the girl on the bed, “You really _are_ worried, aren’t you?”

Sherlock half-smiled mirthlessly and ducked his head as he plucked the damp cloth from her face and patted the back of her neck and shoulders silently as if he were too nervous to sit still. The doctor gently gripped his wrists and retrieved the flannel, washing it out in the bowl before placing it on the nape of her neck as she turned over to lie on her chest. She whimpered at the newest addition of chilliness to her body, but relaxed as her ankles ceased their fiddling. The sandy-silver haired man bent forward to press soft lips to her brow and stood, tugging loosely at Sherlock’s suit jacket as he walked towards the doorway.

“Come along, Sherlock,” he muttered, smiling at the turn of phrase. He smiled politely at the older Holmes as they walked slowly down the stairway, mumbling out of Sherlock’s earshot.

“Do you mind if we stay here until she feels a bit better?” John asked shyly, as he took the first step down in front of Mycroft. “I’d rather not throw her back into the storm if she’s still got a fever.”

Mycroft smiled down at the doctor as he clasped his hands behind his back, “Of course, John. Just keep my brother occupied, will you?”

John crinkled his nose at the implications before asking, “Are you leaving?”

“No,” Mycroft said plainly as he stepped off the last stair and into the kitchen with John in tow. “Not until I am beckoned, at least. However, my brother finds my company… _trying_ at times.”

John smirked as he flipped the kettle on and smiled at the younger Holmes who padded quietly into the tile kitchen, “Not unwarranted, I assure you.”

He slouched into a chair at the table and harrumphed at the doctor who in turn cocked a brow, “It’s your own bloody fault that you sent her out into the rain, anyways, Sherlock. You can stand to wait here until she gets some rest.”

Mycroft smiled as he leaned against the countertop and the old-fashioned kettle began to sing, “I must advise you to choose fairer-weathered days to divulge your… _less-than-stellar_ past to your short-tempered daughter.”

Sherlock scowled and shot his brother a nasty glare, “What did she tell you?”

Mycroft’s politician smile crept onto his lips and he toyed with the younger man, “Not much, little brother. Nothing I didn’t already know, at least.”

“You’re practically insufferable,” he moaned as John set a mug (from an actual matching set) in front of him and grinned.

“You say that about everyone, Sherlock.” He pointed a finger at the ceiling as he mimicked the detective’s bored drawl, “ _Do try and be more imaginative_.”

Sherlock bristled and frowned at the doctor, “I would if I weren’t so acutely aware of your limited vocabulary.”

John smirked as he handed a similar cup to his brother and shook his hand as if he’d just been struck, “Oh! Be careful; it bites!”

The detective brooded in his chair as John and Mycroft chatted about the most inane of subjects until his willpower ran out and he jumped to his feet.

“ _Bored!”_

Mycroft huffed a hot breath from his nose and pulled a thin wallet from his coat pocket. He reluctantly handed over a five pound note to the doctor who smirked at the detective ogling at the exchange and laughed, “He bet me you wouldn’t last ten minutes before giving up. I bet him you wouldn’t last five.”

The detective scowled, “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

John half thought about finishing the Star Wars scene from his husband’s incognizant quote but decided against it and chuckled to himself quietly and leaned forward to press a kiss to his husband’s neck.

“Well, let’s go find you something to do.”

 

***

 

“John, sometimes your brilliance astounds me.”

The detective grinned gleefully as he lounged upside down on the couch in Mycroft’s library. Instead of a sitting room, the elder Holmes had created a library, filled to the brim with old documents, ancient novels and antique maps of the world. Evelyn loved sneaking into the burgundy and gold painted room if only to surround herself in the nearly palpable scent of old leather and paper and to settle herself next to the warm hearth that Mycroft kept glowing as long as he was present to attend to it.

The politician in question scowled and slumped back inelegantly as he glared at the board before him. Certainly, the ebony pieces had nearly all but been eradicated from the glass chess set and only his king and a lonely rook remained. He thinned his lips and narrowed his eyes at the offending doctor, “Impressive and… unexpected.”

Sherlock smiled as he looked at his brother sitting on the ceiling, “Chess is a game of war strategy, brother dear. Doctor Watson here knows how to win those _without_ greasing anyone’s palms.”

Navy blue eyes creased in an earnest smile as he gestured to the board, “Zugzwang.”

Mycroft eyed the pieces again and glowered, the way his lip pouted out reminding John eerily of the man upside-down on the couch, “I know how to pick my battles, Doctor Watson.”

The doctor laughed and leaned back in his chair, “Shall I school you again or have you learned your lesson?”

Mycroft pursed his lips at the challenge before smiling, “Holmes’ are known for their mulishness, John. I am sure you are keenly aware of this fact.”

John laughed heartily and reset the pieces on the board as Mycroft slicked his hair back against his head. Suddenly, there was a light _thump_ and a moan from upstairs and John raised his worried eyes towards the ceiling before calling out, “Evelyn? Love, are you all right?”

The room was silent as the three men awaited an answer, but none ever made its voice known to them. Instead, the hush of fabric slipped down the stairs and Sherlock righted himself on the couch before laying eyes on his daughter as she slid into the doorway with a sniffle. Wrapped in the thin pale green sheet, she rubbed the back of her hand across her face not unlike sickly toddler and leaned against the wooden frame.

“Evelyn, are you hurt?” Sherlock murmured quietly as all eyes turned to find her flushed face shake before she quietly padded through the library and lay across the burgundy couch, placing her head in her father’s lap with a whispered, “ _Dad_.”

Sherlock shot John a concerned expression before he bent forward and ran a hand through her hair that had fallen from its hairband, “What’s wrong, love? Did you have a nightmare?”

An arm wrapped around his and pinned it to her body as she sniffled and let out a shaky breath with a nod. The trapped arm maneuvered its way to wrap around her torso to rub lovingly at her back while she still was able to clutch at it like a makeshift pillow.

“What was it about?” He pried, noticing how she exposed her teeth as if she were about to sob into his stomach.

She pulled the blanket tight around her and pressed her body closer to Sherlock’s, the heat of her skin nearly making him flush in sympathy. When she spoke, it was shaky and weak and the words nearly broke his heart, “ _Night eyes…”_

He pursed his lips as he clutched her tight to him and _shhh’d_ away her fears, “Oh darling, you’re all right. That’s a good girl, just relax.”

Both the doctor and the politician sat in silence as muffled sobs vibrated through Evelyn’s curled up body and watched as the detective tended to her with hushed words of comfort. John caught Mycroft’s confused expression in the corner of his eye and murmured the explanation, “That’s what she used to call Moriarty when she was little. As far as I know, it’s been a while since she’s dreamt about him.”

Her uncle hummed his understanding and straightened his posture, unconsciously straightening out the lines of his coat.

Sherlock ran long fingers over Evelyn’s scalp and hummed soft words of comfort as she wept into his suit shirt, “You’re all right, little dove. You’ve just had a difficult day; go back to sleep.”

Evelyn’s hand fisted the dark navy shirt and her body curled in tighter on the sofa as she hummed droning tones as she tried to calm her racing mind.

The note she hummed triggered the memory of a song surprisingly in his range and he hummed it back to her as his free hand gripped hers in a secure grip.

_“_ _Well I’ve never been a man of many words, and there’s nothing I could say that you haven’t heard.”_

He smiled as her lips quirked up at the simple tune and her features began to relax.

“ _But I’ll sing you love songs ‘til the day I die. The way I'm feeling, I can’t keep it inside.”_

Mycroft’s cheeks were painted with a slight tint of pink, no more than if he had just stepped outside on a winter’s day, as he listened to his brother’s soft singing voice. John had once told him long ago that Sherlock sang to calm their daughter, but he had never had the actual proof of such accusations until now. His lips pursed in a tight smile as he watched Sherlock ignore him and John and focus soft, silver-green eyes on the not-so-little-anymore Watson; the apples of his cheeks pinched in a sweet smile that Mycroft hadn’t seen since he had been chasing the little ebony-haired pirate around their parents’ home.

“ _I’ll sing a sweet serenade whenever you’re feeling sad…”_

He tapped the tip of her nose with the pad of his finger and she smiled earnestly, pinching her eyes tight in an effort to reclaim unconsciousness.

_“And a lullaby each night before you go to bed.”_

John smiled as the detective shifted his eyes towards him and grinned, twirling Evelyn’s locks in his fingertips.

“ _I’ll sing to you for the rest of your life.”_

He brushed a warm hand over her cheeks and brow as Evelyn’s ankles began to shift underneath the thin blanket.

“ _The way I’m feeling, I can’t keep it inside.”_

He continued to hum the short song sans lyrics until he noticed the rapid movements of her eyelids and the infrequent murmur of her lips.

His older brother stood and silently excused himself from the library in an attempt to extend the small family a modicum of privacy and John took the opportunity to reposition himself to the arm of the couch nearest Sherlock. He pressed a light kiss to his temple and bent down to rest a hand underneath Evelyn’s jaw, thinning his lips with the results.

“She’s still warm, but she’s come down a bit,” he said quietly as he leaned his cheek on the soft curls.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and moved the thin sheet around so that it wasn’t constricting her throat after she coughed lightly in her sleep, “She’ll be fine. Just a little worked up; that’s all.”  

John hummed back and leaned in for a chaste kiss before standing up, “I’m going to help Mycroft with some tea. Be back.”

Sherlock nodded and restarted the tune with tender words and even softer caresses to his daughter’s flushed cheek as he wiped a rebel tear from it and her hand went completely lax in his.

Moments later, John walked back into the room with two cups of Earl Grey resting in his hands.

“You _have_ to try some of Mycroft’s honey, Sherlock! Tupelo, I think? I dunno, he imports it from America; it’s-”

 He clapped his mouth closed mid-sentence as his eyes landed on Sherlock’s tilted head as he watched his lips part slightly with every breath. A soft hum of inhalation notified the doctor of Sherlock’s condition before he even caught a glimpse of the lax hands or closed eyes. The detective had somehow slouched back and rested his head against the soft back pillow while his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles.

John smirked as he rested the two cups on the table next to the chess set.

 _Out like a bloody light_.

Mycroft followed in after, sipping on his own tea before John lifted a finger to his lips and pointed at the couch. Light blue eyes peered from around the doorway and he smiled honestly as he glided across the room to join John.

“I don’t understand how anyone was ever convinced he was a sociopath,” John mumbled as he sat in his designated seat and sipped his tea. He gestured at the pair on the couch and smirked, “Just look at them!”

Mycroft nodded, “Cruel children have a way of impressing terrible notions to those who are alone and vulnerable.” He thinned his lips in a tight smile, “I haven’t heard my brother sing in nearly half a century.”

John smiled and raked a hand through his short graying hair, “Then you should have come over more often when she was a baby.” He laughed quietly at the memory, “I couldn’t get him to _shut up_! It was like we had a bloody radio on twenty-four-seven!”

Mycroft’s eyes creased and he sighed as he was about to be uncharacteristically open, “I’ve missed him. _Terribly_.”

Shocked at the statement, John’s brows touched his hairline, but he needed no clarification on what he’d meant, “Pirates are more fun than pompous detectives, I’m sure.”

The two men sat in silence as both fell into their own minds regarding the pair on the couch until John broke it.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?”

Mycroft hummed in question before John chuckled. “Children humanize us. They make us… _real_ again.” He shrugged, “I used to think it was cliché, but I have first-hand experience now.”

“Ah,” Mycroft supplied.

“I don’t know- is that a weird thing to say?” John flushed at the awkward openness of the conversation. “Maybe it’s the ratio.”

Mycroft cocked a brow, “Ratio?”

John shook his head, “It’s stupid; trite really.” He raised his eyes and caught Mycroft’s sharp ones that demanded an explanation. “The ratio of heart to body is largest when we’re in the womb and it continues to get smaller until we’re adults and have grown to our full size.” He waved a hand flippantly, “Thus it stands to reason that children have far more heart per body size than adults and that’s why it’s so easy for them to love and be loved in return. I guess it just takes a child to remind us what love really is.”

Mycroft smirked as he imagined his brother’s reaction to such a statement and rested his cup on the table, “Indeed.”

John rolled his eyes and did the same grinning as he eyed the set-up board.

“So about that game…”

 

***

 

“Bored.”

 

_“Bored.”_

 

“ _Boooooooooooooooored._ ”

 

“Dear Lord, Evelyn, if you don’t hush up, I’ll toss you from the roof _myself_!” John huffed irritably as he eyed the girl upside down on the couch, flexing her toes on the Victorian wallpaper.

She rolled her eyes at him as she stretched her feet higher on the wall and grimaced, “I want to go _outside_. I’m going _insane_.”

“Well, if you hadn’t been so _stubborn_ , you wouldn’t have caught a cold. Your fever’s gone, just be quiet until you stop coughing, _would you_? How do you _have_ so much bloody energy?”

She flipped around on the couch and narrowed her eyes at the man in his chair glancing at her over his spectacles, “Yes, well, _normally_ , I’d spend it chasing people and running around with my friends. Now I’m stuck here. I feel like I’m vibrating.”

“Not my fault,” John smirked as he flicked the newspaper in his hands. “Go take a nap or something. Don’t you have something to blow up in your room?”

She groaned, “ _Last time_ I went to my room bored I got thrown out!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he lay down the pipette on the table and moved the mold cultures into the designated section of the refrigerator, “I did not _throw_ you out. You know, I could give you something to do if you’re terribly bored.”

Evelyn jerked to her feet and shook her head, “Absolutely _not_! Last time I did that, you had me throwing up for _days_!”

“In the name of _science_ ,” he said, affronted as he cocked a brow at her.

She groaned and padded towards the door and towards the stairs, “I’m gonna grab my laptop; I’ll be right back.”

She stepped lightly over the familiar steps and plucked the computer from her bed before padding back into the room and flipping it on. She pulled up a few tabs from the latest bought of cases her fathers had been sent on and frowned at the lack of any new information.

“Have you heard anything about that Moran bloke?” She questioned, flicking her eyes towards the dark-haired man. “Am I in a perpetual state of damsel in distress or can we go back to living our lives now?”

Sherlock visibly stiffened and Evelyn caught his jaw grinding in frustration, “Not… Not yet. I’ll keep you safe, though. Don’t worry.”

She scoffed, “You think I’m _worried_? That’s hilarious.”

 Sherlock scowled and narrowed sharp eyes on her, “You’re dangerous, Evelyn. Every move you make sets you in danger, you know that?”

She smiled wryly and continued tapping away on the keys, “It’s been mentioned to me before.”

“You would be wise to heed the warnings then,” he murmured, stepping towards the sitting area. He raked a hand through the doctor’s short hair, ruffling it before walking the few extra steps to his own seat. Evelyn’s eye caught the expression of ruffled affection from John and she smiled to herself.

“I hope I have that one day,” she said with a grin as John turned and smiled at her, “I really do.”

“You will, love,” he replied, smiling at the aging detective opposite him, “that is, if you live long enough to take advantage of it.”

She stuck out her tongue like a petulant child and huffed, “ _Rude_.” She smirked as she clicked on another tab of her computer screen, “Is your favorite color red or blue?”

John crinkled his nose and chuckled, “Me? Erm, I guess red. Why?”

“Just wondering,” she said merrily, clicking along. “I’m taking a personality test for you. I’m filling in the answers I know, but I’ll ask you if I need to. How do you deal with arguments with friends?”

John laughed and folded the paper in his lap before tossing it on the side table, “Is that one of those silly spirit animal things? Why do you waste your time on those?” He stood and straightened his body, finding that things cracked and popped where they didn’t use to. “Anyway, don’t take one for me. Knowing my luck, I’d end up with something stupid like a hedgehog or a squirrel.”

Sherlock sniffed laughter from his nose and smiled at the doctor, “I’m not certain about a squirrel, but I’d say you’d make a rather entertaining hedgehog; all bristly and gruff on the outside and then an adorable little soft underbelly. Rather accurate, don’t you think, Evelyn?”

“Answer my _question_ ,” she moaned while laughing at Sherlock’s teasing.

He rolled his eyes and shifted on his hip, debating the point and flipped a hand out, “I guess I argue until there’s no point and let the issue lie. Is that an option?”

She hummed in ascent and tapped away, “Okay one more. ‘You get an anonymous love letter. How do you react?’”

“Is that a serious question?” John asked incredulously, furrowing his brow. “Hell, I don’t know. Knowing my luck, it’d be tied to a murder somehow.”

She giggled, “Okay there’s an option _sort of_ like that.” She clicked “submit” and allowed it to calculate its results with a smile, “Hmm, rather accurate, I’d say.”

“Is he a hedgehog?” Sherlock teased, catching John’s glare.

“Nope, he’s a wolf. He’s aggressive, direct, and is able to make difficult decisions at the drop of a hat.” She smiled as the doctor listened to her description. “You’re value-driven; able to understand other’s emotions, but rarely allow yours to show; and you normally find yourself as the leader because of your compulsion to protect those around you.”

John pinched his lip in contemplation, “Well I suppose it could be worse. What about him?”

 “Oh really, John?” Sherlock groaned, stretching out on his chair. “I needn’t a personality questionnaire developed by an adolescent to remind me what my flaws are.”

“Oh you Debbie Downer; answer this for me,” Evelyn chided. “When you were in school, where did you stand in line?”

Sherlock grimaced, “What kind of question is that?”

“Obviously one that delves into your deep-seeded hatred of queues,” Evelyn quipped.

The detective rolled his eyes and hummed as he thought, “I suppose towards the back. That is, if they could _keep_ me in line with everyone else.”

She smiled as she clicked along in the quiz and smiled at the result, “Well that makes sense. You’re a cat.”

“A _cat_?” Sherlock complained, “How dreadfully boring. Can’t I be a lynx or a jaguar or something more interesting than a _cat_?”

Evelyn smirked as she read the description, “As a cat, you are a study in contrasts. You keep to yourself, but you have to be in a field that holds excitement or you get bored. You’re a daredevil, you don’t bother too much with rules, and you try to exhibit apathy to those around you, although you truly desire affection.”

John raked a hand through his hand and chuckled, “Okay, Evelyn, your little test is accurate; you win. Pray tell, what are you?”

Evelyn clicked along and smiled as she read her answer, “I’m a lion. I approach problems with an analytical mind and refrain from allowing my feelings to encroach on my judgment, causing people to find me callous and cold. I’m ambitious, effective and can be very powerful since I normally find myself in leadership positions.”

John padded over to where she perched on the couch and leaned forward to press a light kiss to her temple, “Sounds like my baby girl.”

“Oh stop that! I haven’t been a baby in _years_ ,” she complained as she slid her computer to the side and stuck her tongue at her father.

The doctor returned the expression and ruffled his hand in her hair, “You will be my baby girl even when you are old and grey, love.”

Evelyn ran a hand and straightened her hair back out as she scowled, “Three days and you’ll have to find something else to call me, Daddy! Three days!”

John howled as he perched on Sherlock’s armrest and sighed dramatically, “Oh God, she’s gonna be eighteen, whatever will we do?”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around Johns hips and shrugged, “I don’t know. What do people do for their eighteenth birthdays?”

John jerked his shoulders up, “I went out for a pint- or seven- with my mates,” he jerked around and pointed a finger at the young woman, “which you are very _not_ allowed to do.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes, “Daddy, I have no desire to get drunk. I have yet to touch that condition and I don’t want to any time soon.” She sighed, “I’m too much of a control freak; I can’t imagine _willingly_ relinquishing my ability to think properly and control my actions. You don’t have to worry about that.”

John chuckled, “Of course.” He ran a hand down Sherlock’s neck and rubbed it tenderly, “Well what did you do? I can’t imagine the illustrious Sherlock Holmes not celebrating the day he came of age.”

“You’re assuming I remember that particular day in history,” he said tightly, slightly stiffening in John’s hand.

John sensed the tension and attempted to rub it out, “Oh come off it. You remember every word I’ve ever said and the chemical solutions for two-hundred-and-forty types of ash-”

“Two-hundred-and-forty- _three,_ thank you,” he corrected, shifting his eyes at the doctor above him and narrowing them pointedly, “And I can’t say that I do.”

Evelyn hummed at the awkward silence that befell the room and jumped to her feet, clapping her hands, “Well, I’m sure I’ll find something to do! Maybe by then, I’ll be off of house arrest- that’d _definitely_ be a brilliant present- _trust me_.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s neck affectionately before waving at their daughter who was picking her computer from the couch, “If no one whisks you away tonight, we’ll call it relatively-less-dangerous-than-normal, how about that?”

Evelyn nodded and flipped her hand up with her middle and ring finger down as she walked to the door to the stairs, “I’ll be in my room.”

The two men on the chair returned the silent admission of love and John smiled, “Come down for supper in a few hours, yeah?”

“Yeah!” echoed from the stairwell and John shook his head as he looked back at the detective, “So I take it eighteen wasn’t a good year for you?”

“I’d really rather not delve into those sorts of memories, if it’s all the same to you,” he replied, pursing his lips. “I’ve enough on my mind without adding memories of shameful nights creeping around abandoned buildings searching for a place to sleep.”

John winced before he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, stealing away the animosity from the full Cupid’s bow, “Sometimes I think about how back I used to have things just to remind myself of how lucky I am now” He pressed another kiss to his lips and smiled, “Thank you for that.”

He immediately pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips as he began to rebut and shook his head.

“Just… thank you.”

 

***

 

She had known from the moment she heard his runners squeak against the linoleum, that he had arrived.

She had also known that he had gained a considerable amount of weight in muscles that had finally developed over his lanky frame from the moment she laid eyes on the way his jacket hung on his shoulders.

What she didn’t know, was exactly how efficiently that weight could be implemented to knock the very breath from her lungs in the swiftest and most forceful hug she’d ever taken part of.

“Evelyn Mary Watson, I have not seen you in over a bloody month and that is _unacceptable_!” He demanded into her hair as he leaned down to her height.

Evelyn gasped from the impact and wrapped her arms weakly around the young man’s frame, “Christ you’re huge! What happened to you?”

Jeremy pulled away and smiled, gripping Evelyn’s shoulders, “Since you were gone, I actually had a chance to _eat_ this summer! God, it’s been terrible!”

Evelyn laughed and gripped the boy to her, inhaling his familiar cologne and feeling the way his muscles moved and stretched underneath her palms, “You great idiot.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he chuckled, gently pinching the expanse of skin underneath her jaw with a wink. “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s had the opportunity.”

Her jaw dropped as she swatted the hand away and scowled, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk about a lady’s weight?”

He lightly kissed her cheek and grabbed her hand, leading her from the book store they so often frequented, “Oh, come now, Ms. Equality, you can’t just use that when it’s convenient!”

She pinched her lips tight, but started giggling, “Alright, you win. I’ve been stuck inside for weeks on end and I’ve been bored out of my _mind_. _Please_ tell me you have something interesting to show me!”

He smiled and dragged her towards the park, inhaling the scent of recently cut grass and pond water, “I may not have anything to _show_ you, but I do have something _for_ you.”

She crinkled her nose as he pressed her down on a bench and pulled a package from his shoulder bag, handing it to her.

“Oh Jeremy, what is this all about?” She accepted it and tried to deduce its contents.

She knocked on the hard surface underneath the plain blue wrapping and smiled, “A book of some sort? I mean it’s a bit larger than most of my books, but not heavy enough to be a textbook. What is it?”

“That’s the point of the wrapping; not to know!” He teased, jiggling his long leg up and down on the bench while waving at the gift, “Well go _on_!”

She grinned and tore through the paper, collecting it all in a ball and placing it to her side before running her fingers over the rough felt cover. Indeed, it was larger than any normal book she had ever owned and the binding was riveted as if the pages were meant to be removed and added again. _Peculiar_.

“Happy Birthday, Evelyn,” he said quietly, emerald eyes creasing in a genuine smile. “Go on, open it.”

Her fingertip traced the hand-painted design on the cover and she grinned: a stethoscope wrapped loosely around a magnifying glass. She glanced at him before gently opening the cover and she nearly squealed, clutching it to her chest, “Jeremy, you _didn’t_!”

His teeth sparkled as he grinned from ear to ear and nodded, “I did.”

She traced the younger faces of the pair in the picture on the front page of what seemed to be a smaller scrapbook. It had been the first picture they had ever taken together; Jeremy’s cheek was still swollen from the incidents of their first meeting and Evelyn’s freckles were nigh out of control on her nose and cheeks. Evelyn remembered with fondness the day she had taken that shot as they were walking in the book store they had just vacated and she giggled at the atrocious jacket she had wrapped around herself.

“God, that coat is hideous!” She exclaimed as she turned the page. She felt her cheeks pinch tight and flush as she read over the ancient school paper clipping. “ _Students Discover Rampant Rabbit_. That was our first case, wasn’t it? Professor Markham’s rabbit figured out how to get out of his cage and tore up Professor Petrel’s little box garden, right?” He nodded and Evelyn sucked in a breath, “Is this what I think it is?”

He flipped the next page over and he shined like a new penny, “I had a feeling that you weren’t keeping a log of our cases, so I decided to. It’s… erm, every case we’ve ever been on together.”

She flipped through the pages and her grin grew closer and closer to her ears, and her voice cracked with emotion, “And here I just thought you liked taking pictures.” She flipped several pages over and traced over the familiar faces and the news clippings she had never even known existed. Little bits of evidence were attached to the pages and even on the last mentioned case, Evelyn nearly fell from the bench when she saw her hospital band taped to the scrapbook page. “How did you even-?”

“It’s been a lot of work,” he said with a smile. “I figured we’d need to remember it with something.” He flipped the last case over and exposed a set of unused pages. “There’s- um- there’s still room for more, you know.”

Evelyn suddenly wrapped strong arms around her friend’s neck and gripped him tightly to her, “This is the best birthday present I have _ever_ received.”

Jeremy laughed into the golden curls that threatened to suffocate him, “I had hoped you’d like it.”

“Like it?” She scoffed, pulling back and gently smacking the back of his head, “Jeremy Allan, I love it!” She pulled out her phone and aimed the camera at them, teeth bared in an open smile, “First picture of the Uni section!”

He smiled for her phone and kissed her cheek as she pulled it away. She jumped from the bench and dragged him to his feet, “Come on! I’ve got to show my parents!”

He chuckled and allowed himself to be hauled along by the young woman, “Oh dear.”

 

***

 

“Dad! Daddy! I’m home!” She called out, stomping up the stairs with her friend in tow.

Her voice was suddenly drowned out by a very furious holler from who could only be John Watson and what sounded like fists against a hard surface.

 _Table, perhaps_?

She lifted a finger for silence as they neared the door and she leaned against the closed frame as she listened.

“Sherlock, you are the most idiotic genius I have _ever_ met!” John hollered as he rounded the table for the umpteenth time.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset, John,” Sherlock said nonchalantly as he buttoned his cuffs. “I’ll only be gone a month.”

“It’s not- Sherlock, I- dammit, you’re impossible! No! I’m putting my foot down, Sherlock Holmes; I said _NO_!”

Sherlock cocked a brow and looked down his nose at the shorter man, “You’re going to ‘put your foot down’? Pray tell, how is that going to impede my actions?”

“Sherlock, you’re being an _idiot_!” John hollered, raking a hand through his hair. “You are _not_ going to chase after someone who may or may not be alive.”

“I don’t see how repeating the same argument is going to change my mind, John. I made a promise that I would protect you and Evelyn and I am keeping that vow.”

“Sherlock, I need you _here_! Not somewhere half-way round the world where I can’t help you.”

“I don’t need your help-”

“Yes you _do!_ Sherlock, I am your _husband_! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Don’t be daft-”

“Sherlock, I am not going to lose you again!” John hollered, his voice cracking as his resolve faltered. Sharp cat eyes narrowed at him as he stood with his feet planted in military fashion in the sitting area. He took a shaky breath and wrapped his arms around his chest, shaking his head. “Dammit, Sherlock, it nearly killed me last time; don’t you fucking do it to me again.”

“John, you act like I’m doing this to spite you,” Sherlock said coolly, shifting on his hip and staring the shorter man down.

“No, this is worse than spite, Sherlock,” he replied sternly, thrusting his hand out at the detective. “You are planning to put _all_ of us in danger just to satiate your curiosity. Sounds a little brash, don’t you think? You’re being stupid!”

“Pots and kettles, John,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth. “I am doing just as you asked me to when you asked me to be your husband, or don’t you remember? ‘ _You and Evelyn are the loves of my life, and I vow to protect you both for as long as we both shall live._ ’” He quoted, thrusting his arms dramatically towards the doctor. “I am doing _exactly_ as I promised!”

“At what cost, Sherlock?” John demanded; temper flaring enough to force him to grip the table for a grounding object. “I don’t understand what you could possibly gain from leaving that you couldn’t find out for yourself _here_ and I’m _not_ about to sit here just to find out how much damage you can put yourself through for the sake of your bloody curiosity!”

Sherlock sails seemed to suddenly deflate and jaw slackened, while his shoulders slumped in defeat, “John?”

“What?!” John commanded, his expression sheer exasperation.

“What does- I- I don’t understand.” He mumbled, suddenly sheepish and guarded, which John took notice of immediately.

“What? Wait- hold on,” he held his hands up in a T, “Time out; argument time out.” He blew a long breath from his nostrils and closed his eyes before walking up to Sherlock wrapping his arms around the detective’s thin torso. “I’m angry because I think you’re being an idiot and you’re not listening to me. I didn’t mean that I was going to leave. I still do and always will love you.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and pulled away, gripping his shoulders, “Understand?”

The detective nodded and exhaled the breath he’d been holding in.

“Will you _please_ listen to me, though?” John pleaded, still gripping Sherlock’s shoulders. “I need you here. Evelyn needs you here. This only works if we protect each other, okay? We’re harder to attack as a unit than broken apart, right?”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, “I need to take his attention away from Evelyn, John. She’s moving into her dorm in a few days’ time. How on Earth can we keep her safe when there’s an unseen force at play?”

“I think you’re being paranoid, Sherlock,” John said in a calmer manner, brushing a stray lock from Sherlock’s face. “If she gets into trouble, we _both_ need to be here to help her. Not God-knows-where hunting down clues, alright? If he comes here, we’ll be prepared, but I can’t watch out for her and you if I don’t know where you are.”

“I’ll send updates,” Sherlock bargained, sliding his phone from his pocket. “Daily, hourly, whatever would soothe your nerves-”

“That’s not the point and you know it,” John growled, gripping tighter on thin shoulders. “Please, just be patient this once and stay in London. We’ll take care of it if it happens, but I can’t lose you to the underworld again if it doesn’t.” He gripped Sherlock in a tight hug and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, “Please, Sherlock. Don’t make me do this by myself again.”

Sherlock sighed and nodded slowly against John’s cheek, “Okay.”

John retracted himself from Sherlock’s body and flattened his clothes, clearing his throat, “Yes, well, clean yourself up, yeah? Evelyn should be home soon.”

Sherlock cocked a brow and raised his voice a bit, “You should learn that holding your breath makes as much noise as breathing from your mouth; especially when there are two of you.”

John’s face twisted in confusion until the door creaked open and a flushed eighteen-year-old and her friend slinked into the flat, a book clutched at her chest.

“Oh Christ,” John sighed, raking his hand through his hair. “Evelyn, Dad and I are fine; you don’t need to worry about us. How much did you hear?”

Evelyn toed the ground with her shoe and chewed her lip, “Enough. Dad, I- I don’t want you to leave.”

Sherlock’s eyes jumped from his husband to his daughter before he sighed, defeated, “Two to one; I suppose I’ve been overruled.”

Evelyn lifted her gaze and smiled, “Okay.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and gestured at the book in her grip, “May I see?”

Evelyn looked down and nearly startled as if she had forgotten about the gift, “Oh! Yes, erm, Jeremy gave it to me for my birthday.” She smiled at her friend as she walked towards the two men and handed it over. “It’s a-”

“Log of your cases; only the ones he’s accompanied you on, no doubt,” Sherlock finished for her, flipping through the pages and running fingers over some of the unfamiliar items. “I don’t recognize this one.”

Evelyn blushed and wrung her hands together, “Yes, well, we didn’t really advertise that one.” She blushed as she smiled back at Jeremy who stood tall and still as a stone as if afraid to even breathe. “Turns out that Broderick Williams had taught his crow to steal shiny things and hide them in the school clock tower so he could retrieve them. We may or may not have had to break in in the middle of the night to investigate.”

“She’s your daughter,” John chided softly as he flipped another page and smirked at the caption, “ _The Insidious Inscriber_?”

Jeremy spoke up and startled everyone in the room, “That was the case where someone was writing in pig's blood on the bathroom stalls. Evelyn figured out she was left-handed because of the drag marks in her handwriting and we worked our way down from there.”

“Impressive,” Sherlock commented with raised eyebrows, “both on the casework and the artistic log.” He eyed Jeremy up, sending a chill through his spine, “You seem to be talented in quite the myriad of skills.”

Jeremy flushed and looked over to Evelyn for support, “I- erm- yes. Thank you.”

Sherlock’s lip quirked in a small smile as he went back to examining the book and John looked up to Evelyn with a wry smile, “Are you _sure_ it’s your birthday? I’m pretty sure that happened last year.”

“You act like it’s not the anniversary of the best day of your life,” She scoffed with a wink.

“We’re a little cocky today, aren’t we?” John teased, moving forward to press a kiss to her forehead before stepping into their room. “I suppose it’s true, though,” he called out.

She smiled back at him as he returned and pressed two small boxes in her hands. His navy eyes creased as he smiled at his husband, “I suppose if we’re doing gifts now, we can go ahead and give them to her.”

Sherlock nodded and placed the scrapbook gently on the table before looking up towards Jeremy, “Would you like some tea?”

John scoffed as Jeremy nodded shyly, “Are you offering?”

“No,” he smiled. “But now you know, so if you want to be rude and not supply him, that’s not my fault.”

John opened his mouth and closed it again before muttering silent curses and flipping the kettle on in the kitchen as Evelyn sat down on the couch with the two packages in hand. “You didn’t have to get me anything, you know. I’m pretty sure adults don’t get little birthday parties like children.”

John huffed in the kitchen as he fixed the cups of tea, “You are our only daughter and we’ll get you gifts if we please; child or not.”

She raised her hands and smiled, “Hey, I’m not complaining here!”

Jeremy perched next to her with one leg drawn under him and he smiled, “Well what are they?”

“You have a thing about presents, do you?” She teased as John dispersed the tea and sat in his own chair, facing his daughter, and Sherlock came to lean against the arm of his chair. He smiled and waved at her, “Well, go on.”

She grinned and peeled the paper from something that felt oddly familiar. As the silver wrapping fell away she squealed and hugged the book close to her chest, staring directly at her ebony-haired father, “How did you- what- I can’t even!”

She pulled the book back and flipped it open to the familiar first page and traced the ancient text as he father chuckled and imitated her tone of explanation, “I may or may not have pinched it from the library we broke into.”

“This is brilliant,” she beamed, showing the time-yellowed pages of _A Christmas Carol_ to her friend and smiling at her father, “Thank you, Dad.”

She lifted the next box and peeled the paper back to reveal a box. She plucked the lid off and inside there was yet another box. She smiled at John and laughed as she pulled off the lid and found box after smaller box until she found was looked to be a ring box. She furrowed her brows and flipped it open, and smiled with a confused look on her face, “A ring?”

John smiled and stood up, patting Sherlock’s leg before padding over to her and pulling the ring from the box. “It’s not just any ring, darling. Now I know you’re not a fan of jewelry, but I think you’ll find this to be an exception.” He plucked one of the lids from the pile of opened boxes to her right and carefully slid a photograph from it, handing it to his daughter with a wary smile. She took the picture and gasped as she noticed the identical ring on the right hand of a woman who looked terribly similar to her. The woman in the picture was hugging a much younger version of her father and had her hand splayed over his chest in an affectionate manner. She looked back at her father with sparkling eyes and then back to the ring in his hand. It was gold, and had a single emerald (her favorite gemstone) cut in the perfect emerald fashion and seated next to half a dozen small diamond-looking stones on either side. Elegant and practical for everyday wear.

“It was your mother’s,” John said softly, toying with the metal and gem object with his fingertips. “She told me once that her mother had given it to her when she was very little and it was the last thing she owned that had any of her family’s memories attached to it.” He raised his gaze and met hers with wet eyes, “She said she wanted nothing more than to give it to you, so there you have it.”

“Daddy…” She said softly, placing a hand on his cheek. He pulled at her wrist and slipped the ring on her right ring finger and smiled at the ease it slipped on with.

“Damn near close fit,” he remarked with a slight crack in his voice as she lifted her hand and examined how it sat on her fingers.

“Pretty much,” she agreed, smiling at him. She wrapped her arms around the doctor and hugged him tightly, “Thank you, Daddy. I know that was hard for you.”

“Oh hush,” he replied, gripping her back. “Happy Birthday, love.”

“The happiest, certainly,” she murmured into his neck before pulling away and wiping her face. “Now come off all that sentimental rubbish. We’ve got work to do!”

Sherlock cocked a brow and stood from next to John’s chair, “Work?”

“Yes!” She beamed, standing up and pulling John and Jeremy up from near the couch, “I can’t sit here all day and saturate in sentimental mush! I’ve got to finish packing and finishing all my experiments and-”

“How about after we go out?” John interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Even _you_ can allow a single day of fun for your birthday, yeah?”

She thinned her lips and nodded, “Fine! But Jeremy has to come too.”

“Wait- what?” He stammered, alarmed. “Oh, I’d rather not impose-”

“Nonsense!” John smiled, clapping the young man on the back. “Besides, Sherlock’s not had anyone new to torment in _months_!”

Jeremy swallowed audibly, but smiled as he was lead to the door by Evelyn; whisked away to God-knew-what with the most insane family he had ever met.

He could only imagine what University had in store for his detective and him and he was surely excited to find out.


	28. A Different Kind of Darkness

_It’s just a doorknob. That’s it. It’s JUST a doorknob._

Her right hand hovered over the handle of the door as she clutched her suitcase in her left.

_It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve been away from home. But it’s UNI. Well, yes, but you can’t just stand outside of your dormitory all day long. Wanna bet?  God, you sound insane. Open the damn door!_

She gripped the chilled metal and swung the door open; exhaling the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in. She opened her pinched eyes and finally drank in the image of 183 Hawthorne Hall.

The room was about the size of their sitting room at home and had two beds on opposing walls. Two desks accompanied them and as she walked into the room, she noticed the bathroom that was to be shared between her newest roommate and her.

_Welp, you can’t go back now. You’re official!_

“You all right there, love?”

Evelyn jumped at the sound of John’s voice intruding on her internal conversation and she nodded nervously, watching as he carried a box of mostly books and trinkets into the room and onto her bed.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

He huffed as he set the box down and ruffled her hair as he walked back to the door to retrieve another from the cart. “Oi, thanks for all your help there, Sherlock.”

The detective in question leaned against the door frame and cocked an eyebrow at his accuser as if it was practically blasphemous to assume that he- of all people- would partake in anything as mindless as _moving boxes_.

“What are you doing then?” John questioned as he wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Supervising?”

“I helped pack the boxes and that was all that was requested of me,” he said snippishly, picking at the frame of the door with his handheld magnifying glass.

John rolled his eyes with a quiet curse as he handed the last box to his daughter and looked about the room, “That’s the lot of them. How do you feel?”

She blushed as she gently rested the box on the desk and sat on the unmade mattress, bouncing with a bit of unexpended energy, “Weird. Excited. Nervous. Thrilled. Like I’m vibrating in my skin and yet I don’t want to move at all.” She grimaced and clutched at her gut, “My stomach hurts.”

John smirked as he sat down on the mattress next to her and pulled her to his shoulder, kissing her crown, “My little girl is all grown up.”

Evelyn smiled and leaned back up to call Sherlock over, patting her other side, “Come here!”

He did as asked and too bounced on the naked material scowling, “This is atrocious; absolutely dreadful, Evelyn.”

“Yes, well I guess I can’t wish for five-star bedding at a University I’m going to on scholarships, can I?” Evelyn quipped as she pulled out her phone and held it at arm’s length in front of her. “Smile! First picture of Uni life!”

Sherlock donned his typical less-than-irritated-scowl as John crossed his eyes and poked out his tongue as the camera flashed. She pursed her lips as she landed a light smack on either man and held out the phone again, sighing dramatically, “A proper one, won’t you? You both make everything _so much_ more difficult than necessary!”

The detective rolled his eyes and pinched his cheeks in an attempt to seem pleasant as the doctor laughed earnestly before smiling for the camera like a well-practiced veteran. Evelyn flipped the screen around after the camera snapped and smiled, pleased at her success. “Well that’s about as good as it’s gonna get, I suppose.”

“Good as it gets?” John remarked incredulously. “I’ll have you know I was once called ‘Three-Continents-Watson’. I had every lady looking at me from Afghanistan to Scotland!”

“Confirmed Bachelor,” Sherlock hid in an overly-exaggerated cough, smirking as he caught John’s expression of resignation and betrayal in the corner of his eye.

 “Confirmed what-?”

“Nothing!’ John snapped, flicking the detective’s ear from around his daughter and grinning to himself at Sherlock’s sour pout.

Said detective rubbed tenderly at the cartilage as John leaned around and questioned Evelyn directly, “You know, as much as your father resents it, we _could_ have dipped into the trust your uncle set up for Uni. Even without that, your father and I have some saved up- we _can_ help you a bit.”

“As much as I appreciate it,” she turned to Sherlock and raised her hand up placating manner ( _as if HE would care if she offended his imperious brother)_ , “and I _do. Really-_ ” she turned back to John and chewed on her lip, “I want to make this on my own. If I can pay for this by myself and succeed _by myself_ I’ll feel the world better for it.” She smiled as her cheeks warmed, “But if I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

John opened his mouth to reply but Sherlock cut him off, waving his hands dramatically, “Yes, yes, we all know she belongs to _you_.” He slipped to his feet as he regarded the girl still sitting on the mattress, “Would you prefer us assisting you in setting up your room or no?”

She smiled and shook her head, “No, I think I can handle it.”

“Good,” Sherlock said curtly, pulling John from the mattress and towards the door, “My phone is seizing from the staggering quantity of texts from Lestrade. Apparently someone’s gone and finally done something exciting enough to baffle the Yard- which in all reality isn’t saying _too_ much.”

Evelyn jumped to her feet and hugged the pair before shooing them from her dormitory door, “Shoo! I’ll be fine, go on and save London.”

Sherlock shot her a silent _love-you_ glance that she returned with a smile and wave as he pushed the doctor from the door and down the hall, much to his chagrin. The sandy-haired man turned his head and hollered back as the detective pushed him on, “I expect a text from you every now and again, you know!”

“I know! Promise!” She called back as he smiled and turned back around to no doubt chide Sherlock on his lack of etiquette. Evelyn smiled as she quietly shut the door and leaned against it with a sigh. Her Dad was terrible with goodbyes (as was she) and she knew that his concern for upsetting her with the prospect of leaving forever was making it even harder for him to depart.

_Gotta love them_ , she thought fondly as she straightened up and set to making up her bed with her newly purchased- dormitory-sized linens as she heard a key enter the doorknob and wiggle around awkward as if searching for purchase.

“You have to kind of jiggle it in there,” she called, slowly walking to the doorway as the lock finally clicked open and the door swung towards her. In the doorway stood a girl ( _Eighteen- or somewhere in the proximity; one dog and one cat at home- they sleep in her bed; dark, thick eyebrows that fit on her face but certainly make a statement; studying law of some sort based on the books hanging out of her case; oldest daughter of two; scholarship student probably, foreign?)_ who smiled and immediately held out a right hand expectantly.

“Abigail White,” she said, an American accent pouring from her thin, but curved lips. She smiled brightly and winked an eye, “You could call me Abby, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Abigail it is then,” she replied with a smile, eagerly shaking her hand. “I’m Evelyn Watson; pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Abigail smiled. Her cheeks looked flushed as if she never stopped smiling and Evelyn grinned at the notion before her acquaintance’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Not gonna lie- your accent is epic. So forgive me if I ask you questions just to hear your speak.”

She laughed earnestly and nodded, “Duly noted. Where are you from?”

The girl with stunningly straight and silky-looking chocolate brown hair pulled her bags through the door and shut it with the back of her heel as she dragged her belongings into the room, “Obviously the good ole’ U-S-of-A. Surprisingly enough, not a lot of people ask me that. I feel like it’s kinda tattooed on my forehead.” She crossed her eyes as she pointed at her face and laughed, “But I guess you want something more specific. I’m from Florida: the state of oranges, Disney World- _not_ Land- and the only state where you have to go North to get South!”

“Go North to get South?” Evelyn questioned with a smile.

“Yeah,” Abigail huffed as she dropped her bag and flopped on the naked mattress. “The United States is kinda funny.” She raised her hand as if drawing a map in the air, “The ‘South’ is predominately Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina, etcetera, etcetera. That’s where you get all the dreamy Southern drawls and cowboy boots like you see in the movies. As you can tell,” she pouted, “I wasn’t blessed with that. Although my Grandmother was raised a Sothern Belle in South Carolina and I picked up a bit since I like to mimic people and let me tell you! Get me riled up and I drawl like a natural born Grits gal!” She waved a hand as Evelyn laughed at the strange terminology, “ _Anyways_ , if you go South in Florida, you head towards Miami and if you get there and don’t speak Spanish,” she whistled lightly, “good luck! If you head North, you run into Georgia and Louisiana- I mean, depending on your direction- and that’s where the cool accents are. Well, I mean Louisiana has got a _few_ accents- some of which sound like someone swallowed a mouthful of cotton and some of which you kind of have to stare at them and just hope what the said wasn’t a question. _Otherwise,_ Floridians kind of sound like me: no real accent besides the stereotypical _American_ one.”

Evelyn’s brows touched her forehead as she laughed at the explanation, “Are you certain you like my accent more than yours? I’ve supplied less than five percent of the conversation so far.”

Abigail rolled over on her side with an exaggerated expression of shock and gasped, “I knew Brits were rude, but dern! _Excuse_ me, Princess!” She smiled and waved at the blonde girl who seated herself upon her also unmade bed, “And you? Where are you from?”

“I’m actually from right here,” she said waving at the window as if she meant the world outside, “London, I mean. I live on Baker Street.”

Abigail quirked her brow, “You act like I know where that is.”

“I’ll bring you around some time,” Evelyn offered. “I bet Dad would have an absolute _blast_ with you.”

Abigail rolled onto her stomach and grinned, “Yeah, well I’m by myself here, so I’m gonna steal your parents for support, ‘kay? ‘Kay.” She smiled as she granted herself the right. “Tell me about your folks? Who are Mr. and Mrs. Watson?”

Evelyn smiled sweetly and shook her head, “Mr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, actually.”

Abigail winced as if she’d been slapped and held out a hand pacifyingly, “Sorry about that- didn’t mean to offend, promise.”

“No worries,” Evelyn said, easing her acquaintance’s concerns, “You actually might have heard of them. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson?”

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?” Abigail screwed her lips as if trying to make the connection and shook her head, “Former rings a bell, but I don’t know why. Are they famous or something?”

Evelyn snorted, “I’m sure they’d like to think they are. Dad solves crimes and Daddy blogs about it. I tag along and give them a few new grey hairs every now and then.”

“You tag along on crimes?” She asked incredulously, “That’s brilliant! That’s what I want to do one day!”

“Really?” Evelyn replied with enthusiasm. _Common ground- perfect!_

“Well, _sort of_ ,” she admitted, slipping from her bed and plucking a textbook on Law in the UK from her bag. “I want to work with international crime. You know, INTERPOL, stuff like that. I’m studying international affairs and law with a sort of criminal justice track. I want to work with the New Scotland Yard first and work my way up to international. You know?”

“No way! I’m in the criminal justice program here!” Evelyn slipped her phone from her pocket and produced a picture of her and Greg Lestrade at the front doors of the NSY building. “My Uncle Greg is a Detective Inspector for the New Scotland Yard, so I’m hoping he can pull a few strings and get me an internship or something after I graduate. I’m sure he could let me know if there’s any international work he could let you look at.”

“It’s official,” Abigail stated sternly as she examined the picture on the screen, “You are my new best friend and totally the coolest person I know in England.”

“I have a feeling I’m the _only_ person you know in England,” she said with a wink as she accepted her phone back and slid it in her pocket.

“Not true!” Abigail said, falsely-affronted. “I made friends with the taxi driver and the lady who gave me my directions to the dorm. So, there you go- you’re cooler than _two_ English people.”

“Oh! Well that _is_ something to be proud of,” she quipped.

 She met Abigail’s eyes to ask her something about her educational track but was completely stunned into silence. They were practically pitch _black_. Her skin was a milky shade of tan and it complimented her dark hair and brows, but her eyes were something darker and completely strange. They didn’t look out of place or unnatural, they were just alarmingly devoid of color, yet the way she creased her eyes in her perpetual state of amusement made them a warm kind of dark instead of a frightening one.

“Is it the eyebrows or the eyes?”

Evelyn nearly jumped at the question, “What?”

“You’re staring and your mouth dropped a little,” Abigail said plainly, as if she’d had this conversation over and over before. “Normally I get that reaction before people say ‘girl, you need your eyebrows done’ or ‘Jesus, what happened to your eyes?’ Not a big deal.”

Evelyn clamped her slightly ajar mouth shut and nodded honestly, “It’s the eyes. I’ve just never seen irises so… _dark_.”

Abigail groaned and flopped back on her bed, “I _knooooooow_. My momma’s got these real pretty soft brown eyes- kind of the color of milky mocha- and my dad’s got real pretty greeny-bluey eyes that change color with his moods. Do I get either of those? _Nope_. I get _black_.” She jerked up and smiled, “Wanna see something weird?”

Evelyn shrugged, suddenly cautious, “Erm, sure?”

Abigail pointed at the light on Evelyn’s keys that she had laid on her bedside table, “Grab that mini-flashlight-thing and come over here.”

Narrowing her eyes, she did as requested and handed Abigail her keys. The brunette clicked on the little LED light and held it up to her eyes. “Betcha five bucks you can’t find my pupil.”

Evelyn scoffed before she leaned down and peered where the light shined and her jaw unhinged slightly for the second time that day. Indeed, her friend had not been lying. The light flashed in her eye and Evelyn saw the constriction of _something_ but the line between iris and pupil was practically nonexistent and she shook her head in disbelief.

“Ha! Told you! When I was little kid I got sent home from Pre-School crying because my teacher couldn’t find my ‘ _pooples’_ when we did a little class project _._ Now what is five bucks here? Like two pounds or something? I’m still trying to get a hang of the conversion rates. I handed my taxi driver a dollar bill with a ten on it.” She shrugged, “Hope it was enough.”

Evelyn crossed her arms over her chest and shifted on her hip, “That’s wicked. Never seen anything like it and yeah, that’s about right, but here they’re called notes- not bills. I’ll buy you your first cup of English tea, how about that? How long were you in the cab?”

“Er, I don’t know. I feel like we went round and round in circles before I ever got on campus, so hell, he could have been taking me for a joyride. Ah, _c’est la vie_! But not gonna lie- tea sounds _amazing_. Everything’s hot tea round here, right?”

Evelyn quirked a brow, her lip pulled up in questioning disgust, “You drink… _cold_ tea?”

Abigail rolled her eyes, “Well _duh_. I’m from the _South_. It’s practically a cardinal sin if your blood is less than twenty percent sweet tea.”

“That sounds… interesting.”

“Hey- don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it!” Abigail chided. “I have a hunch that my cold tea and yours are _vastly_ different. I’ll try and find some _normal_ teabags and I’ll make you some. How about that?”

“Sure,” she agreed as he phone chimed in her pocket. She slipped it out and opened the message.

 

From: Daddy

_Sorry about rushing off, sweetheart. Dad is shite at saying goodbye, you know that. Let me know if you need any more help moving in OK? Love you. –Daddy_

_15:47_

She walked over to Abigail and held her phone out, “Take a picture with me to send to my dads?”

“Absolutely!” Abigail said enthusiastically, automatically leaning her head towards Evelyn’s as they filled the screen with their faces and waving hands. The photo clicked and she attached it to the message she sent back to him.

 

To: Daddy

_I know, it’s fine- really. This is Abigail. She’s my roommate from America. Florida apparently. She’s quite interesting and VERY friendly. Perhaps I can bring her to dinner sometime? Love you too. –EV_

_15:49_

 

Within a few minutes, her phone chimed again and she laughed as she showed Abigail the photo and message.

 

From: Daddy

_Hi Abigail! Of course, just give me forewarning so I can discretely dispose of any experiments. ;) –Daddy_

_15:51_

In the picture was John smiling wide and waving at the camera with a brooding Sherlock in the background, scowling at the camera. Farther in the background was a non-descript crime scene- too far away to be able to see anything of interest.

“What a cute pair!” Abigail grinned as she took in the picture and background. “Is that a-?”

“Yep.” Evelyn answered the unfinished question and smiled at the reaction of excitement and astonishment on Abigail’s face.

“That’s freaking epic. I’m jealous.”

Evelyn smirked as she typed back another response.

 

To: Daddy

_Will do. Stay out of trouble. –EV_

_15:55_

 

Another message chimed in just as she set her phone on the nightstand.

 

From: Daddy

_Yes ma’am. –Daddy_

_15:57_

 

She smiled as she set it down and finally pulled the linens over the mattress and fixed the bed in a manner she saw fit before pulling the heaviest box out and filing the books into the relatively small book case to the left of her desk.

“Like reading, do you?” Abigail quipped as she, too, finished up her bedding and began pulling personal items from bags and placing them on her desk.

“You could say that,” Evelyn replied with a smile as she fit the well-worn moleskin copy of _The Hobbit_ at the top of the bookshelf in the place of reverence.

“Okay- super serious question.”

Evelyn turned with a furrowed brow as she examined Abigail’s grave face.

“This determines if we can remain friends,” Abigail said with thin lips. “What Hogwarts house are you in?”

Evelyn couldn’t contain the laughter that erupted from her lips and she shook her head in disbelief, “That was _not_ where I thought you were going with that.” She smiled as she shrugged, “I’ve taken a whole bunch of online tests, and keep getting bounced between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. I can’t figure out which one I’d actually belong in.”

A huge grin wiped over the scowl on Abigail’s face and she laughed, “Oh my God- me too! I figured I’m Gryffindor, because anyone can be _smart_. But you have to _choose_ to be brave. It doesn’t just _happen_.”

“I like that,” Evelyn admitted with a sincere smile. _You have to CHOOSE to be brave. Brilliant._

“Isn’t it, like, against the law to be British and not read Harry Potter or is that just an old wives’ tale?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Evelyn choked through a laugh. “What _do_ you know about Great Britain?”

Abigail smiled, “It’s cold; it’s rainy; AKA- the weather is _awesome;_ the people sound beautiful; and I got accepted on scholarships to an awesome University so I decided to come. I figured that was enough.”

She flicked up a finger and pointed it at Evelyn, “Oh! And you drink your tea wrong.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes, “Our tea is _fine,_ thank you. You say you like rainy and cold? Do you get that much where you’re from?”

Abigail snorted, “Do you know _anything_ about Florida? It’s practically the closest place you can get to Hell without going under the surface. It’s normally right around a hundred during the summer- and _God_ with the damn humidity- you’d think you were _suffocating._ And it rarely dips below fifty in the winter. Like, seriously! You open your door in the summer and it’s like a palpable _wall_ of heat smacks you in the face.” She ogled at Evelyn’s surprised face before realizing the problem, “Hundred degrees _Fahrenheit._ That’s like what? Forty or so in Celsius?”

Evelyn smiled and tilted her head to the side, “A little lower than that I believe. Well, it’s going to get _quite_ chilly for you here then. I suggest you wear a considerable amount of clothes more than you would normally until you adjust. Hypothermia is a real thing here.”

Abigail smirked, “Rather die of hypothermia than a heat stroke!”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Evelyn said, rolling her eyes as she returned to plucking things from their boxes and fitting them in their respective areas on her desk or closet.

Her mind buzzed about until something Abigail said caught her attention, “You said you ‘mimic’ people?”

Abigail smiled and nodded fervently as she spun around in her desk chair, “Started out as a really annoying habit, but I’ve learned to control it. Whenever I’m around or hear a particular accent or language for a while, I copy it without even trying. My mind just finds it interesting so I try and recreate it on my own so I can better understand it. For example,” she held up a finger and closed her eyes. “Speak continuously until I put my finger down. Just, like, tell me what I need to know about you or something. Normal language, please.”

Evelyn smiled and complied, watching the index finger as she spoke, “My name is Evelyn Watson and I am the daughter of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. I live on Baker Street with them and their landlady who is the closest thing I have to a grandmother, named Mrs. Hudson. I have a best friend named Jeremy and a boyfriend named Michael. I help my fathers solve real crimes and I try and solve my own, but I find it rather difficult to find clients that aren’t skeptical of a young adult. Erm, my favorite color is green and my favorite book is _The Hobbit_ and I’ve lived in London my entire life-” She stopped abruptly as Abigail flipped her finger down and smiled as she opened her eyes.

“See? I just need to hear something and I can copy it.” Her American accent was completely obliterated and a familiar ( _flawless)_ High London accent replaced it. “Same thing with art. I can’t seem to create anything with my mind, but I can copy it with killer accuracy. So as long as I’m around you or anyone from around here, I can make myself fit in. It’s just gonna take me a bit of practice to do so.” Evelyn was thoroughly impressed as every harsh “R” was replaced with an elongated “ah” and every vowel’s sound was morphed into correct English pronunciation. Abigail rolled her eyes, “But I don’t know any of the local jargon, so I need to catch up on that if I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

She pinched her eyes tight and reopened them with a smile, slipping back into her American tongue, “It’s a pretty handy talent, but it’s useless unless I figure out a little more about the countries I’m gonna deal with.”

“Can you do anything besides an English accent? Sorry to say it, but it’s not that hard to fake an English accent for an American.”

Abigail narrowed her eyes and smiled wryly, “Oh ye of little faith. Give me a challenging one then. Google something hard to mouth, but still in English. I’ll bet you another cup of Joe on it!”

Evelyn wrinkled her nose. _Cup of Joe? I don’t even want to know._ She pulled the laptop from her backpack and flipped open the lid, typing in the search bar for a more difficult accent to pull off. A woman’s voice filled the room with a new report from several years back and Abigail smiled as she closed her eyes.

“Turkish? Nice, I like it.”

She was silent until the two minute clip was up before she spoke again. As she spoke, her tongue was pulled back and nearly slipped the tips of her teeth and every word was clipped and harsh as her jaw elongated exaggeratedly to make up for the unfamiliar posture of her mouth. “The Turkish accent makes everything clipped. Not a very beautiful accent and a little harder to fake than, say, a Russian accent that needs some of the same embouchure. University is a fun word with this accent. University.” She waved at Evelyn and smiled, “Come on. University.”

Evelyn chuckled as she tried to roll the short “R” that sounded more like a soft “or” and replace the “V” with a soft “W”. “University. University.”

“See?” Abigail questioned, slipping back into American. “It’s a lot of fun. Good party trick if nothing else.”

“I see,” Evelyn agreed. “Very impressive. If I keep making bets with you, I’ll be purchasing every cup of tea you drink during your stay!”

“Saves me a pound!”

Evelyn giggled as she pulled out her toiletries and placed them on the wide sink near the loo. For a girl, she supposed they were rather meager: a package of hair ties, a brush, toothbrush and paste and shower materials.

_I guess that’s what you get for sharing a bathroom with two men your entire life._

“You don’t use makeup either?”

Evelyn turned and shook her head, “Not unless it’s for a case. I don’t like stuff on my face. I like the way I look just fine without having to alter it with God-knows-what chemicals they put in that stuff.”

Abigail sighed dramatically and thrust her hands in the air, “ _Finally!_ Someone _gets_ it! Like seriously- what’s the point? Every time you touch your face, you screw something up! Too much dern work if you ask me. Men look fine without makeup because society hasn’t told them that they don’t. Well _fuck_ society then!”

“I agree,” Evelyn said cheerfully. She was rather excited that she was getting along so well with her roommate. Michael had warned her that not everyone gets someone that they can relate to and that during his first year, he’d been paired with a boy who had more interest in drugs, women, and loud music than in studying or keeping their dorm tidy and he nearly bust the door down on the day finals were finished.

Another ping on her hone pulled her from her reverie and she smiled as she glanced at the name.

_Speak of the devil_.

 

From: Michael

_Hey! Get all your stuff moved in?_

_16:39_

 

“Seems like I moved in with Miss Popular,” Abigail teased as she played with her phone on her bed.

Evelyn decided to try her luck and teased her back with a short lyric _, “_ _You will be_ _Popular_ _._ _You're gonna be popular!”_

Abigail jerked up from her bed and grinned like a mad man, “ _I'll teach you the proper poise when you talk to boys. Little ways to flirt and flounce!_ ” She laughed as she kicked her feet in the air as she lay on her stomach. “No way; another singer! This is great!”

Evelyn grinned as she typed back to Michael.

 

To: Michael

_Hey! Yep, I’m all moved in I guess. Guess what? I got a brilliant roommate! You’ll love her! Wanna come with me tonight so we can show her around? –EV_

_16:45_

 

Michael was obviously awaiting her text as he responded before she could put the mobile down.

 

From: Michael

_Why not? What’s her name? Tell her I said hello! By the way, I have your birthday present still since you’ve been quarantined since you got back. :)_

_16:46_

 

To: Michael

_Abigail. She’s from America. And you didn’t need to get me anything, but I appreciate it. :) Bring it tonight? –EV_

_16:47_

From: Michael

_Sleeping with the enemy, eh? Lol sounds good. 7:00?_

_16:48_

Evelyn looked up, “Hey Abigail, want to come join Michael and I tonight? I was going to offer to show you around myself, but he’d like to meet you as well.”

Abigail’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights and she nodded, “Sure! You should tell him to bring along some hot British babes for me to hang out with.” She finished with a wink.

Evelyn rolled her eyes and typed back.

 

To: Michael

_Perfect. If you have any “Hot British Babes” at your disposal, Abigail requests you bring them along. :P –EV_

_16:50_

 

From: Michael

_Damn this economy! I’m fresh out!_

_16:51_

She laughed aloud and answered Abigail’s cocked brow, “He says he’s all out of ‘Hot British Babes’.”

 Abigail sighed dramatically and flapped a hand across her brow, “Oh dear, what terrible friends I’ve made. They can’t even scrounge a single hot British babe for me! What’s a poor American girl to do in a world so big and lonely?”

 

To: Michael

_Well that’s quite a shame! See you tonight. :) –EV_

_16:53_

From: Michael

_It’s a date! :)_

_16:54_

 

Evelyn slipped the phone into her pocket and lounged on her made bed as she stared at the ceiling, “Seven o’clock sound good to you?”

“Brilliant,” Abigail replied, flipping up some pictures of herself with some family members on her desk and glancing at them longingly.

“Homesick already?”

Abigail smirked as she picked up a frame and held it in her hands, “Not _quite_ yet, but this _is_ the farthest I’ve ever been from home. And from American flags for that matter.”

Evelyn sat up on her bed and smiled, “Speaking of party tricks, want to see one of mine?”

Abigail set the picture down in her lap and grinned, “Sure.”

“When you walked in I could tell a few things about you. Tell me if I’m wrong. You’re the oldest of two children, single parent home, one cat and a dog that sleep with you in your bed, right handed, and well versed in public speaking which means you’ve probably won awards of some sort. You thrive in the spotlight, but hate to ask for it, so even though your personality is bold and open, sometimes you come off a little apprehensive. You were raised either to be a boy or around them, so from this I can deduce you’re a feminist, favorite color is something more masculine than not- probably green or blue, you keep your hair long so you can tie it back and you roll your heels, so you were in a marching band or military training program, thus making you a patriot and if what I know of American politics is correct, you’re probably surrounded by Conservatives.” She tilted her head and smiled at Abigail’s dropped jaw, “Am I correct?”

“That’s Über creepy, bro.” She narrowed her eyes as she tried to piece the information together, “Okay, so you can guess that bit about my family from my pictures and I’m sure I’m covered in pet hair, but how did you get the rest of it?”

“Through the science of deduction, my dear Abigail,” she said sweetly as she flipped a finger up. “You are bold and your require the attention of the whole room when you speak- thus public speaking is easy from you and you don’t fluster when under the limelight. The whole thing about being a boy or being raised with them was a half-guess because of the way you hold yourself. More feminine people round their shoulders forward and dip their chins, but you do the opposite. You square your shoulders back as if asking for a challenge and you keep your chin up as if staring the world in the face. The rest is just reasoning, really.”

Abigail pressed her lips together in an exaggerated frown as her brows hit her forehead, “Okay. I’m a little perturbed, but thoroughly impressed. Where did you learn that?”

“My Dad,” she replied fondly. “Wait till you meet him. He can deduce every trip you’ve made over the last month and practically your entire life’s story with a single glance.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got my attention,” she said with a smile. “Look, I think I’m a little jet-lagged. I’m gonna grab a few winks before we head out, ‘kay?”

Evelyn smiled and nodded, “Sure. I’ll shut off the light for you.” She did so and hopped back up on her bed, flipping open her laptop again to browse for the few hours until their dinner meeting.

_Not bad,_ she thought to herself with a smile as she heard Abigail toe off her shoes and slip underneath her covers.

_Not bad at all._

 

***

 

“Abigail White; it’s real nice to meet you!”

Michael accepted the extended hand and smiled back, “Hello, I’m Michael. Michael Bradley. I’m a biomedical sciences student here. Last year, I’m afraid.”

“Wanna be a doctor, huh?” She said with a smile nudging Evelyn with her elbow, “Well you sure know how to catch ‘em, don’t you?”

Evelyn smiled as she greeted Michael with a quick hug and peck on the cheek, “Something like that. Look, I know this really amazing place for Chinese food. Are you up for it?”

“An American eating Chinese food in England,” she stated with a twinkle in her eye, “wouldn’t my momma be proud? Diversity!”

Evelyn shook her head as grabbed Michaels’ arm and led the way down a few streets and towards her fathers’ favorite take-out besides the Thai place down the street from Baker Street.

Abigail seemed to be in her own little world as she grinned at everything and anything that they passed, pulling her thin coat closer to her body, “God, this is beautiful! Listen to everyone! I feel like we’re in a BBC movie or something!”

“I mean- they _are_ filmed in London for the most part,” Michael quipped with a wry smile that Abigail noticed and returned.

“Cheeky little devil, aren’t you?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes as she opened the restaurant door open and herded them inside, “Oh, you’ve no idea.”

They were seated as a small square table and Abigail seemed to have no issue with the idea of being a welcomed third wheel. Evelyn was surprised by the amount of enthusiasm and wonder that seemed to emanate from Abigail like a golden aura as her face bounced here, there, and everywhere searching for more things to ogle at. They ordered and chatted over subjects such as miscommunication between English and American jargon; views on history; and all three seemed pleasantly surprised by the ease of conversation, enjoying the company of each other thoroughly.

“Be right back,” Abigail said as she stood and excused herself to the loo. She then leaned down with a serious face and questioned the two sternly, lowering her voice, “Is there anything I should know about- you know- the toilets here? I saw on a documentary once that when you flush they kind of spit at you here, so I need to be prepared if that’s the case.”

Evelyn _thonked_ her head on the table and waved her away, “It’s called a _bidet_ and I don’t remember there being one here. If normal toilets don’t frighten you, I believe you’ll be safe.”

“Sweet!” Abigail exclaimed as she turned back around and flounced back towards the restroom.

Michael leaned back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks animatedly, “Well she certainly is a character, isn’t she?”

Evelyn nodded as she tilted her head to expose one eye to him, “Most definitely. At least she’s not _boring_.”

“I’ll give her that!” Michael agreed with a hearty laugh. His expression jumped as he piddled around in his pocket and retrieved a small box wrapped in ribbon and a loose bow on top. “It’s not much,” he admitted as he handed it to her, “but I hope you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure there could be a five pence glued to a stick of gum and if there was some reason and thought behind it, I’d appreciate it,” she stated with a smile as she slipped the ribbon from around the small box and flipped up the lid.

Inside was a silver octagon with sticks and small knots of metal poking out from either end and attached to a thin silver bracelet. She had only touched on organic chemistry a bit, but she recognized the structure immediately. “Dopamine?”

Michael flushed and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “Yeah, well, I know you have a weird thing about the word ‘love’ and sentiment and all that so I figured you’d appreciate this more than just a word.” His cheeks turned a bright crimson as he studied a stray piece of rice on the white tablecloth, “I, erm, I dopamine, uh, you, Evelyn.” He immediately slammed his face on the cloth-covered wood and groaned, the cloth slightly muffling his words, “That sounded _not_ as stupid in my head.”

She laughed as she clipped the silver chain on her left wrist and pulled Michael into an affectionate hug, “This is perfect, Michael. I absolutely adore it. Thank you! And I dopamine you, too. Especially when you’re a- what would Abigail call it- a dork?”

Michael smiled and wrapped his arms around the young woman until they heard a dramatic gasp.

“Did you just propose? Seriously, bro- I could have taken a picture or _something_!” Abigail walked up with an affronted expression and waved a hand towards the young couple at the table. “Warn me next time, will you?”

Evelyn chuckled and shook her head, “He didn’t propose; he just gave me a birthday present.” She exposed her wrist and the silver jewelry glinted in the artificial light of the restaurant.

Abigail crinkled her nose, “Dopamine? Oh Lord, you sentimental sap! I love it! Happy belated birthday, by the way. Well, you’ve got yourself a right cutie pie, don’t you?”

Michael smiled at the strange compliment and patted Evelyn’s hand, “Come on, love. We should get you girls home before it gets too dark. A young strapping lad like me can only fight off so many villains.”

Evelyn scoffed and rolled her eyes, “Like I need protecting. I can handle myself very well, thank you very much!”

“Did he just call you ‘love’?” Abigail interjected enthusiastically, “Oh my God, that’s the cutest thing ever! Do all British people do that?”

Evelyn sighed and lolled her head to the side laughing, “Tell you what. Let’s pay and on our way home, I’ll tell you all about ‘what British people do’.”

“Brilliant!”

 

***

 

She hadn’t felt like this since her first day at primary school. Butterflies bounced around in her gut and she nervously chewed her lip as she carried her notebook and textbook into the lecture hall.

_It’s just like any other class. No big deal. Just relax_.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket so she slipped it out before taking her seat near the front of the classroom.

 

From: Dad

_Professors are idiots. You’ll be fine, don’t worry and if you can manage it, TRY not to correct them. They’re not usually too keen on impugnment. Tell me how it goes. –SH_

_08:32_

 

Another chimed in before she could reply so she opened it as well.

 

From: Daddy

_Good luck today, darling! I know it’s scary, but Uni is great! Just be careful. Love you! –Daddy_

_08:33_

She smiled as she tapped quick responses to both of them.

 

To: Dad

_I’ll try my best. No promises. –EV_

_08:33_

 

To: Daddy

_Love you too. I’ll be careful. Promise. I’ll text you and let you know what happens. –EV_

_08:34_

 

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and sat up straight as the- she assumed- professor walked through the door and towards the front of the lecture hall, eying the sixty or so students that accompanied her in the early morning _Terrorism 101_ class.

Her jaw was sharp and every part of her structure was angular and angry; dark green eyes peered at the class through thin spectacles and her lips were pursed with intent. Her silver tinged-brunette hair was pulled tight in a bun that only seemed to accentuate her sharp cheekbones and highbrow. Evelyn found herself intrigued and intimidated by the elitist-looking woman, and when her sharp tongue cut the air like a knife through hot butter, Evelyn nearly jumped in her seat.

“What is terrorism?” She questioned as she clasped her hands behind her back and cocked a brow. Her voice was very similar, in Evelyn’s mind, to a glockenspiel; bright, tuned, and demanding attention.

The class remained silent and the professor seemed perturbed by the fact. She spun around and clutched an Expo marker and attacked the whiteboard with angular cursive as she repeated the question, “I asked, ‘what is terrorism?’ Do you mean to tell me that not a single student that has been accepted into this University can deduce the meaning of this term?” She circled the root word in red and stood expectantly for a victim to pounce on.

Evelyn tilted her head around as she timidly raised her hand, noticing she was the only to do so.

“Ah! Yes Miss-?”

“Watson,” she supplied.

“Miss Watson, do explain what the term ‘terrorism’ refers to, please.”

Evelyn swallowed as she felt every eye suddenly to her and she smiled warily, “Terrorism is defined as any act that wishes to bring terror or fear into those it is used against.”

“Ah, thank you Miss Watson, apparently you can _read._ Don’t be dull, tell me something _useful_.”

As much as she pained to admit it, this woman reminded her eerily of her father and suddenly she found herself more comfortable taking control of the conversation.

“It’s predominately used to define acts of violence against civilians and noncombatants and that’s what normally causes the most fear. It’s also a term used by governments in propaganda to delegitimize their opponents and usually in the same turn legitimize their own use of weapons in retaliation. Normally it comes about with religious or political ammunition and the term itself is just a malleable expression for ‘someone’s attacking us and we need the support of terrified citizens’.”

The professor narrowed her eyes and Evelyn thought she caught the twitch of her lips upward, but she couldn’t be certain. The woman turned back towards the class and raised her chin, “What Miss Watson describes is a rather vague definition of everything that encompasses terrorism, but she is not incorrect. Thank you, Miss Watson, you may sit down now.”

Evelyn looked down and gasped as she slid back into her seat; her cheeks on fire. _When did she even stand up?_

“I am Doctor Margaret Brownwood. You may refer to me as Doctor or Professor Brownwood and the use of any other name will result in your failing of my class. Is that understood?”

She half-smiled at the multitude of nervous nodding before she clapped her hands in front of her and grinned as her dark eyes sparkled with something Evelyn could only relate to her father’s enthusiasm for deductions.

 

“Good. Now let’s begin!”


	29. Dreams and Dares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update- finally! I've been working on some other projects, but I haven't decided if I'm going to post them and update them by chapter or if I'll finish them first and post them all at once. Opinions? Be prepared for TONS of fluffy Paternal Sherlock. Thank you so much for reading and I am so thankful for all of y'all's support.

As was the case most of the time, Sherlock wasn't asleep as he lay in bed with John that night, gripping the doctor to his chest and inhaling the sweet aroma of spice, tea, and _John_. He kept his eyes closed and splayed his hand over the now familiar pectoral muscles, noting how each inhalation caused the doctor’s body to pull and expand and how every exhalation brought John’s form closer to his. Nights had passed this way for years, and Sherlock reveled in the beauty of the ( _surprisingly_ ) stimulating repetition.

Either way, Sherlock had not been asleep.

Thus, it was very lucky for the little eleven-year-old that pattered down the steps and whispered into their room; standing patiently at the door like a classic novel vampire awaiting the required permission to enter. Sherlock heard the stuttered snuffle and whine of a labored outbreath and turned over to face the small shape in the darkness.

He lifted a hand to rub his eyes and whispered as to not wake the man next to him, “Darling, are you all right?”

In the shadows of the doorway, he could see her shake her head so he sat up and pulled the covers back over his hips, “Come here, love. What’s the matter?”

He furrowed his brow as he heard a sniffle and quiet feet padded over to him and grabbed his hand, the girl leaning back with all of her weight to pull him from the bed.

Frowning, he grabbed her hand and stood; slipping on his housecoat and following her out of the bedroom door towards the sitting room, “Alright, I’m up. I’m up. What’s the matter?”

She spun around and held her finger up to her lips, “ _Shhh!”_

“Oh,” he mouthed back, mirroring the gesture.

She turned forward and dragged him into the stairwell, where she pulled him in front of her and pushed him down on to the steps so that his line of sight was even with hers.

After a moment of Evelyn staring at him and saying nothing, Sherlock pursed his lips and rested a hand on her shoulder, murmuring, “Evelyn is everything all right? Why are we whispering?”

She rubbed her toes into the carpet covered wood of the stairs and Sherlock’s heart caught as a sob hitched in her throat, “I don’t want Daddy to hear.” She chewed on her lip and looked down, “I’m scared, Dad.”

Immediately on alert, he grabbed her shoulders and met her gaze, tipping her chin up, “What’s frightening you? I’ll take care of it; just tell me.”

She shook her head and rubbed her face with her hands, “There’s something wrong with me! I’m- Well, I’m…”

She made a vague gesture towards her room and then towards her abdomen and Sherlock cocked a brow in confusion. Evelyn sighed in exasperation and gestured back up to the room above them, “There’s stuff… on my bed… And I, well,” she gestured to her gut again and pinched her face in pain, “I’m- oh God.”

Suddenly Sherlock was greeted by a mouthful of Golden hair as the young girl wrapped her arms around him and hiccupped into his housecoat, “I don’t want to be a grown-up yet!”

_Grown-up?_ Sherlock was first shocked by the term and his mind raced as he tried to decipher its implication. Finally, realization dawned on the detective and his eyes widened as he tried to suppress the nervous laughter that was threatening his lips.

“ _Oh!_ ” _Damn you, John- this was supposed to be YOUR territory. We AGREED._  He patted her back gently, “Oh, I- erm- it’s all right, love. It’s- well- for you, it’s just part of growing up.”

“But I don’t like it! I don’t _want_ to grow up, yet!” She cried softly into his coat, nuzzling against his neck. “It doesn’t feel good. I feel sick.”

Sherlock thinned his lips in agreement and shrugged, “Yes, well, I can’t say I know very much about the specific sensation, but I’d assume it’s rather… _unpleasant_.” He pulled her back by her shoulders and looked her in the eye, a golden strand of hair obstructing the view, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Daddy about this? I mean, he is a doctor, you know. He would know more about, uh, _this_ phenomenon than I would- I’d imagine.”

“No!” She almost yelled, startling both herself and the detective in the near silence. She clapped her hand over her mouth and shook her head vigorously before adding, “I don’t want to talk to Daddy about it.” She paused as if looking for the right term, “It’s _weird_.” The detective cocked his head and Evelyn wiped her face before sighing, “He’s a _guy_.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it back a few times before finally adding, “Darling, I’m sure you are aware that I am a man as well.”

“Yes, I _know_ , but,” she looked up to the ceiling as if searching for inspiration and the right expression, “Daddy’s a _guy_ -guy. And you’re- well- you’re a _not_ -guy-guy.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and hummed, put out, “Eloquent as always, Evelyn. Should I be offended?”

“That’s not what I mean!” She whined, flashing her palms at him. “I just- ugh!” She plopped on the stairs next to Sherlock and dropped her head into her hands, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

Her father hummed as he thought about his words and he wrapped an arm around her pulling her tight to him, “Well, first thing’s first. We should probably, um, get you cleaned up. Then we can- well I don’t imagine we have anything in the flat you could use, so we’ll have to go out-”

“I don’t want to go with Daddy!” She jerked up, shaking her head.

“Little bird, you _are_ growing up,” Sherlock supplied, if not a little uneasily. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.” His voice was stern, but he couldn’t help the inflection of affection creep through it, “Evelyn, your father _is_ a doctor. He knows how these things work.”

“But it’s _weird_!” She whined, earning her placating palms from Sherlock.

“Oh, for God’s sakes! Alright, alright, we won’t go with him. I’ll take you.” He lowered his palms and checked his wrist, forgetting he had taken off his watch before lying down with his husband. “What time is it?”

Evelyn turned her wrist over and lifted it so that the light streaming through the windows could illuminate the analog face, “Quarter to three.”

Sherlock puffed out his cheeks as he closed his eyes and dragged his hand down his face; sighing before peeling open one eye and looking down at her. Looking back at him was a pair of puffy navy blue eyes and a pouting lip that brooked no argument on the matter. Thus, he sat up straight and rubbed on his protruding knees, “Well, I believe Tesco’s at Charing Cross is still open, we can take a cab. Go wash up.” He leaned down and kissed her temple, “It’s going to be all right, love. We’ll just have to- uh- _prepare_ ourselves, how’s that?”

Evelyn wiped her face again before nodding and letting out a deep breath. She stood, making her way out to the loo whilst Sherlock climbed the stairs and entered her room. He smiled as he thought about the days before Evelyn and before the Fall, where he would sit on John’s bed whilst he was away only to interrupt the pristine military perfection that was his room. Now, however, the militarized sharp lines were no more; the bed covering a soft, pale green with embroidered reeds and books spilling out where they sat precariously on the myriad of shelves. Her matching pale green and off white curtains fluttered in the bit of breeze from the cracked window, so Sherlock set about closing it before stepping over to the bed.

_Destroy the evidence_ , his mind quipped as he pulled back the duvet and folded it; draping it on her desk chair before slipping off the bed sheets and delicately wrapping them up to take downstairs to the laundry.

_I thought the unsavory parts of parenthood were OVER by now,_ his mind whined as he stepped down the stairs and set about preparing the laundry for the next day. Before his mind even had the chance to imagine any helpful experiments that could arise from this, he nipped the notions in the bud; shaking his head and shutting the machine quietly with a mental note to start the wash as soon as they returned.

As he stepped back up the stairs, he noticed tiny, wet footprints leading out from the living area and up the rest of the stairway, so he smiled and padded into his room to get dressed.

He slipped out of the housecoat and pulled up his trousers and shirt with the barest whispers of noise, but as he was tying his shoe, he miscalculated the balance required, and he knocked into the desk with a hushed curse and a light _thump_.

In an instant, the doctor was up and feeling the bed for signs of life before calling out Sherlock’s name softly, his voice rough with sleep.

“Right here, love,” Sherlock soothed, stepping forward and rubbing a hand over the military cropped hair. “I’ll be right back. I’m sorry I woke you.”

John sat up in the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he placed his husband in the dark, “ _Hmph_. Whurya goin’?

Sherlock brushed his lips against the doctor’s temple and smiled, “Out. I’ll be back soon; go back to sleep.”

John’s fatigue obviously had a greater hold of his body as he attempted no argument and nodded, sliding back under the covers and hugging the pillow deemed most often _Sherlock’s_ against his chest.

The detective smiled and padded out into the stairwell, quietly latching every door shut behind him. As he reached the bottom stair, he pulled the red scarf from the post next to his and tied it around the girl waiting at the door, “Cover up, darling. It’s frightfully cold out there.”

She half-smiled and creaked the door open allowing the late November air to intrude into the flat, whispering behind her, “You didn’t tell Daddy, did you?”

He traced his lips with his fingers and bit down on them gently, mimicking a mute. Shaking his head, he murmured incomprehensible nonsense until Evelyn turned around and smiled at him, raising a gloved hand to “unzip” his lips. The detective smiled at her and ruffled her hair as he pulled out his mobile from his Belstaff pocket to hail a cab.

A short wait and an almost shorter cab ride later, Sherlock ushered Evelyn into the lighted store and lifted his gaze to the signs, “Where do we even start?”

Evelyn grabbed his hand and pulled him along, “I think this way.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Evelyn! You are _not_ going to make me choose what to buy!” He moaned as she dragged him in front of the towering aisle of everything feminine and walked around to the next aisle as if afraid to be seen.

“Shhh!” She poked her head back around after checking for anyone who might be looking and mumbled, “How am _I_ supposed to know?”

Sherlock raked a hand through his hair and turned to look at her before she squealed and shrunk back away, “Evelyn, you’re being childish-”

“Don’t look at me! Just pick something!”

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” he mumbled to himself, lifted his right hand to obstruct his view of the girl so that he could continue to speak to her. “I am a _man_ and I am married to a _man_. How do you expect me to know what to pick out?”

“Yes, well you supposedly know _everything_ and you have a _daughter_ so I suggest you figure it out!”

“Oh, Christ. Didn’t you have a class in this? I’m certain that that is still part of the curriculum,” Sherlock mumbled, crinkling his nose as he picked up one rather flowery and _pink_ package that- _does that say “wings”? What on Earth does it mean by “wings”?_

_“_ They don’t tell you anything _important_ ,” she moaned, Sherlock hearing her scuff her shoes on the floor. “My stomach hurts.”

“Oh dear,” Sherlock breathed as he picked a green and blue package: _Evelyn’s favorite colors- seems fair enough_. _Maybe I should grab one of each- JUST in case. Why are there SO many options?_ “You know, you have a perfectly capable physician-”

“ _Dad!_ ”

“ _Okay!”_ He whisper-yelled, rolling his eyes. “Wherever did you learn to be so _whiny_?”

She harrumphed and turned on her heel, leaving Sherlock to catch up with several packages in his grasp. As soon as she caught a glance him, her face flushed bright red and she turned him around, “Dad! You can’t just walk around with those hanging out where everyone can see!”

He rolled his eyes, “Well what do you _want_ me to do? Eat them?” He shifted his packages so that he had one hand free and gestured to the ghost town that was the store, “Look, Evelyn! Not a single plebian-minded soul in sight! Lay your worries to rest; the fact you have now reached maturity is still secret-”

“Shhh!”

“Oh my God,” Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. “You’re being so immature.”

“We should play the ‘Quiet Game’,” Evelyn mumbled.

“Oh, and exactly how long do you think you could last with _that_ one,” Sherlock quipped, following her to the over-the-counter medication section and browsing the possibilities.

“Don’t you know how this works?” She cried out softly, picking up a bottle and reading the back for anything containing penicillin- _just_ in case. “I’m _hormonal_!” She whispered it like a curse. “That means anything you say can and will be held against you and if I start crying it’s _your_ fault.”

“Oh is that so?” Sherlock teased, eying her up and down as she dared him with her gaze. He leaned in close and whispered, _“I do, Augustus. I do.”_

“Could you _not_!” She cried, wiping at her face and throwing her selected pills under Sherlock’s chin. “That was _mean_ and you _know_ it!”

He chuckled to himself as he caught the pills and followed her, “Isn’t this all that’s required?”

She stopped and turned around but didn’t meet his eye, “Yes, but I’m not standing in the queue with you.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Evelyn!” He complained, “You’re going to stick me in the queue with _your_ shopping and you’re not even going to accompany me? You’re being absurd.”

“Ta, Dad!” She hollered before exiting the store and leaving the detective with his purchases and a scowl.

He growled to himself and sighed before walking to the cashier who was _far_ too perky for quarter-past-three. She smiled at him and eyed his purchases, “Looks like you’re either in the dog house or you’re gonna earn your ‘Red Wings’ soon, is that right?”

Sherlock flushed and his mouth gaped open, “Pardon me?”

“Oh nothing,” she hummed as she scanned in the items, noticing the bright pink on his cheeks. The rung up the total and winked at the detective as he pulled out his billfold. “Well you’re quite the catch, making runs for your gal.”

He lifted his left hand and sighed as he gathered his belongings and walked away, “Happily married, thank you. By the way, you should break up with your boyfriend. He’s sleeping with your flatmate. And your eye shadow really brings out your crow’s feet. I’d suggest another brand.”

He left the indignant scowl in the store as he watched Evelyn hail a cab and followed her in, eying her as he did so, “That wasn’t very brave of you, running off like that.”

“It got the job done, didn’t it?” She smiled as she leaned against him in the cab.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled a chocolate candy bar from his pocket (paid for- of _course_ ), handing it to her with a kind smile, “Here. I’ve read that it- well- helps. Marginally.”

“Okay,” she smiled.

Suddenly, her face pinched and she yelled, _“Sherlock!”_

He cocked his head in question until sharp pain ripped through his cranium and her voice hollered out his name again.

_“Sherlock!”_

Sherlock opened his eyes to find a very concerned John staring down at him, patting his cheek with crimson dripping from his temple. _Oh God, what had happened?_ He opened his mouth to ask just that before the rusty taste of iron made him gag and his eyes opened wide enough to elicit a reaction from his husband.

“There’s a good man!” John announced rather loudly as he brushed Sherlock’s fringe from his forehead and half-smiled. “I thought I’d lost you for a moment there.”

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed and swallowed in the barren dryness of his mouth as he looked around with weary eyes.

_John: bleeding- superficial, something sharp, but not a blade. Seems lucid enough._

_Stranger: who is that? Daniel? David? Ah! David Wentworth. Well, he looks rather incapacitated._

John caught Sherlock’s questioning gaze and chuckled as he helped the man up gently, “He got in one good one before I caught up with you. You should have learned after all these years to wait for me.”

Sherlock scowled and rubbed the very sore knot on the back of his head, “Or maybe you should have learned to keep up. What in God’s name did he hit me with?”

John frowned as he parted Sherlock’s blood-darkened hair to decide the total damage, “Pipe. Rather sharp one, too.” He pointed to his forehead, “Swung at me, too, but I’m sure he regrets it now.”

The murderer in question said nothing in his defense as he laid face first and unconscious on the warehouse floor; a bruise on the back of his neck from what Sherlock assumed to be the butt of John’s gun.

Sherlock smirked and winced as his head throbbed, “How long were you?”

John scowled and smacked Sherlock’s arm as he pulled out his mobile and dialed for D.I. Lestrade, “Damn near twenty minutes, you idiot. I had to wait for the train to finish crossing before I could follow and then I got lost at the docks. You had better be glad he has the whole photograph ritual; I might not have made in time if he hadn’t.”

“Jolly well that you weren’t late then,” he said with a straight face as John steamed as he spoke through to the other line.

Sherlock frowned to himself as he catalogued his injuries including the throbbing concussion that John was going to fuss on about far too much later. He then smiled as he remembered the short memory that had played in his impact-induced dream. John had laughed for a solid four minutes and twenty-seven seconds when Sherlock had relayed the story to him about a week later, but he had never brought it up to their daughter.

“Where’s Evelyn?” He suddenly asked as John hung on and walked towards him again.

John shrugged, “Hell, I don’t know. Probably at her dorm- it is a Wednesday you know.” The doctor chewed on his lip and frowned, “You all right? You look a little pale; even for someone with a concussion.”

The detective nodded as he furrowed his brow, “I’m fine. I just dreamt about her; strange really.” He opened his mouth and clicked his bone-dry tongue, “Although, I should probably eat-”

Just as he spoke the words, he swayed slightly forward and into the doctor’s arms earning him a curse.

“Shit, Sherlock! You’re too bloody old to be messing about with your blood sugar,” John murmured as Sherlock straightened himself and fluttered his lashes, refocussing his eyes.

“Stop fussing, John. I’m fine.”

“My arse, you’re fine,” he grumbled as he grabbed Sherlock’s cheek and pulled him down so he could examine his eyes. “You’re concussed.”

“Well spotted,” Sherlock teased with a crinkled nose, resting his hand on John’s shoulder and pressing some of his weight into him. “I’m fine John. Just take me home and wake me up every so often. I think Evelyn would find me rather boring in a coma.”

“That she would,” John agreed with a smile.

“I love you,” Sherlock spouted, resting his forehead against John’s temple.

The doctor in turn laughed and shook his head, “Oh, I _know_ you’re concussed now.” He caught Sherlock’s quick grin in the corner of his eye and smiled back, “I love you, too. Even when you’re a bloody _idiot_.”

“But I’m your _favorite_ idiot,” Sherlock teased uncharacteristically. He decided his brain was far more jumbled up that he cared to imagine and he popped his mouth shut to discontinue any further evidence from escaping his lips.

“That you are,” John smiled, shaking his head. He looked up as he heard sirens coming closer to their position and patted Sherlock’s back, “Come on, love. Let’s get you home.”

 

***

 

 “You _look_ like a bloody American,” Evelyn chided as she shut the door behind her roommate and followed her down the hall and outside.

Abigail rolled her eyes and gestured to her attire, “It’s nice and warmish outside so I’m _comfortable_! I’m sorry if jeans and open button-downs remind you of the freedom that you fear! _Viva la revolution_!”

“Low blow!” Evelyn giggled as she swung her knapsack on her back and followed the brunette across the campus to the one class they shared that semester: English I. Professor Lezotte was an arrogant older man with an ever worse case of halitosis and Evelyn and her friend made a point to sitting towards the back end of the lecture hall as to avoid his projectile saliva. 

“I swear,” Abigail sighed as she pulled open the door to the English department building and allowed Evelyn in, “I am going to be _so_ friggin’ happy when this class is _over_. This guy _suuuuuuuucks_.”

Evelyn smirked and clicked her heel against the wooden floors, “I agree. I’ve never actually been anxious about getting a grade back before this.”

Abigail groaned and smacked her forehead with the heel of her palm, “Ugh! I _know_. I’m ‘bout as nervous as a cat in a room of rocking chairs.”

“What?” Evelyn questioned with a cocked brow.

Abigail flustered and gesticulated as she tried explaining, “Um, you know? Cats and their tails and- have you ever rocked a chair back on a cat?”

Evelyn’s expression caused Abigail to abort her explanation and sigh, “Never mind.”

“You say the _strangest_ things, you know,” Evelyn giggled as they turned down a hall and began up the steps toward their desired floor.

“You should hear my family,” Abigail said lightly, stepping off the last step and following Evelyn towards the lecture hall. “Have you ever seen a movie where someone’s eye got squished or heard the sound of cracking bone or something else really gross and it made you kind of…?” She cringed and stuck out her tongue as if personifying a feeling of discomfort and disgust.

“Well sure.”

“In my family, we’d say that ‘made your butt hurt’,” she said with a hearty laugh. “You know- your sphincter tightens up and you just-”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re _really_ rather strange?” Evelyn interrupted as she created disturbing imaged in her mind with the phrase.

“Only all the time,” Abigail agreed with a smirk. The brunette pulled the lecture hall door open and followed Evelyn inside, taking their familiar seats towards the back and pulling out their respective notebooks.

Evelyn crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the chair, chewing her cheek as she looked down to where the professor lectured. Abigail had said once that the Professor Lezotte “acted like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth” and (after thorough explanation) Evelyn agreed wholeheartedly. His demeanor was rude, arrogant and cold; a far better “Ice-Man” than her uncle would ever be. He spoke to the students as if they were the chewing gum stuck to the sole of his shoe and it irked her to no end. It was just as well that she sat in the back as she was far less likely to find herself sassing the professor if he didn’t have her close enough to pick on during the class.

She checked the time on her phone once more before the man in question walked down the steps of the lecture hall and to the bottom platform, books and a stack of graded exams nearly slipping from his arms. He slung them down on the table and combed a hand through his thinning hair before turning back to the class with a scowl.

“Before I hand back your frankly atrocious exams, I have been asked by the dean to alert the women of this class to a rather pressing issue.”

Evelyn pursed her lips as she caught Abigail’s questioning expression and sat up to give the professor her attention.

He cleared his throat and rested his hands on his hips as he gazed over the lecture hall, “Ladies, there have been a rise in reports of _unintentional_ sexual encounters on campus and this university asks that you take care to avoid such situations that may put you in harm’s way.”

“The term is ‘rape’, sir,” Evelyn called out harshly before she could stop herself. Abigail inhaled sharply and lightly smacked her arm before turning back to catch the professor’s irritated glare.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s called ‘rape’. Not ‘ _unintentional sexual encounters’_ ; please don’t diminish what these people are going through,” she had heard through the grapevine that this had been the case on campus, but an announcement from the university’s professors alarmed her to the actual magnitude of the problem.

_Perhaps Dad will help me work on this_.

Affronted, but unwilling to lose face in front of his students, the professor cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes at the young woman, “Yes, be that as it may, there is still a request from the faculty for you young ladies to control the amount of alcohol you consume and to keep your containers close to you if you are in a crowd.”

She narrowed her eyes.

_So someone’s drugging them first._

She hadn’t heard that from any of the reports she’d seen or people she’d interviewed yet and it piqued her interest.

“Alright, so keep an eye on your drinks and try not to be outside alone at night, yeah?” The professor answered flippantly as he turned back to his desk.

Evelyn nearly jumped as her companion’s voice rang out in the room, “Are there going to be any increases in security? Surely the University Police are on this?”

The professor groaned and lolled his head to the side as he looked back up into their section, “I don’t _know_ , perhaps you can ask the Yard yourself.” The class collectively sniggered and Abigail’s face flushed. “Now may I continue with my lecture or does anyone else have something they’d like to say to waste our time?”

Evelyn physically bit down on her tongue and clenched her hand over the elongated desk that they sat at, rolling her fingers nervously as she tried to control the Watson temper flaring in her chest.

“Nothing?” Professor Lezotte asked, peering directly at the two young women in the back. With their silence, he smiled, “Good. Now I am certain that you have all finished your readings and are fully prepared for the lecture and discussion?”

“Sure,” Abigail whispered to Evelyn as she rolled her eyes. “I would _love_ to discuss the origins of ‘Oedipus Complex’ with a bunch of immature teenage boys.”

Oblivious to the quiet jest, the professor continued with the lecture and Evelyn half wondered how hard she would have to stare at him before she could set the bottom of his trousers on fire like a magnifying glass in the sun.

_Dad was right_ , she thought to herself as the discussion lead to snob-nosed students using intelligent vocabulary in an attempt to sound as such, but only highlighted their lack of comprehension for both the terms and the topic being discussed. _These people are IDIOTS._

“ _The tyrant is a child of Pride_ ,” she quoted quietly to her friend as the professor hollered in order to establish his reign in the lecture hall, gesturing to the projected screen irately.

Abigail snorted and shook her head, “Betcha five bucks, not a single one of them could tell you where that’s from.”

Evelyn shrugged with a wry smile, “Eh, maybe one or two of them might. Otherwise, online summaries don’t seem to expose many direct quotes.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Abigail sniffed with a curved lip. She pulled a few dozen strands of silky straight hair from beside her ear and began to braid them unconsciously as she listened to the professor drone on about Antigone and the fates of the children and what literary _brilliance_ this entire set of stories was.

“Please remember to pick up your exams from the front table before you leave as I will throw unclaimed papers away, thank you!” He finished snidely as he flicked off the projector and gathered his books behind the desk, sitting down as the exams were whisked away from in front of him by enthusiastic students.

“Welp,” Abigail sighed as she flicked her notebook shut and slid it in her bag. “Let’s go see the damage. ‘Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored’, you know.”

Evelyn smiled and glanced up at her as she stood, “Aldous Huxley; I’m impressed.”

Abigail grinned back and started down the steps through the crowds of students mumbling and examining their test scores until they reached the bottom step and swam through the crowd towards the table.

Evelyn walked towards the “T-Z” section and found her exam to be the last one left with a harsh red letter on it that sent her stomach into her shoes. She ripped it up from the table and to her chest as if afraid to allow anyone to see the number on it and padded aggressively towards the professor as she flipped through the exam.

She cleared her throat and pursed her brows as the professor looked up from his tablet and then back down dismissively, “Ah yes, Miss-?”

“Watson,” she supplied as coolly as she could with her fired up temper.

“Miss Watson,” he repeated, “what can I do for you?”

She thrust the exam towards him a little more harshly than she had intended and scowled, “Fifty percent of this exam grade was based on the written portion, no?”

The professor cocked a brow and lifted his gaze back towards her, “Yes?”

“I need to understand how I received this grade,” she said sternly as he plucked the paper from her hands. “I completely and thoroughly answered _every_ question you asked and yet you discredited me for the entire thing. Why?”

He flipped through the paper and sighed through his nose as he handed back to her, “Miss Watson you failed to understand the ideas of foreshadowing and do not possess a correct literary interpretation of the work.”

“It was an _opinion_ question!” She exclaimed as quietly as she could, gripping the paper in her hand until it crumpled. “You asked me how _I_ understood the meaning of this story to be and _I_ understood it to be as I stated. How can you mark me down for an _opinion_?”

“Because you misunderstood the literary interpretation as _I_ have explained it,” he said a little more sternly as he began to lose his patience.

“The term ‘interpretation’ in itself is a subjective view on how _each_ individual understands the story. How is it that I can be discredited for my _opinion,_ when you blatantly _asked_ for it, just because it is _different_ from yours?”

“Because as your professor, I am paid to ensure that you read and comprehend the story as is presented by your textbook. It is not my fault that you failed to do so. Perhaps you should put as much effort into your studies as you do into wasting the class’ time arguing with me.” He huffed with narrowed eyes before waving a flippant hand at her and looking back down to his tablet. “That will be enough, Miss Watson. Good day.”

_Good day?_ She thought angrily as her cheeks ached with embarrassment and shame and she turned on her heel before half-stomping/ half-running up the stairs and from the room. _That’s the best you can come up with? Perhaps you should go back and relearn the concepts of literary interpretation before impressing incorrect ideals on your students since you don’t seem to even understand these stories YOURSELF!_

She looked at the paper again and scowled as she crumpled it in a ball and shoved it in her pocket.

_No way am I throwing it away where someone else might pick it up and see what it says_.

“Butter wouldn’t melt in his bloody mouth for sure,” she said irately as she kicked out in frustration at a dust bin, nearly toppling it over before it righted itself as she passed.

_Bloody professors and their bloody exams and this damn university and its damn lack of civility and damn it ALL!_

Never in her entire life had she ever received something that shameful and low on an exam. Even exams where she had been out all night on a case and hadn’t studied a _bit_ for it, she had been able to pass with high enough averages to keep her in honors. She _never_ had issues in academics.

_But a 40?!_ She pressed in her mind with hate. There had been a few questions that she had missed on the multiple choice section, but as long as her written response had been tested by a _competent_ professor, she would have still tested well within the 75-90 range.

Ironically, her mind attempted to throw a phrase she had overheard from her American friend in order to humor her racing mind.

_Mad as a mule chewing on bumblebees. That is the PERFECT description. I think I’d RATHER chew on bees as opposed to this codswallop._

She huffed out an irritated breath as her mind continued to race and she felt her stomach roil with shame.

_Bull-fucking-shite._

 

***

 

 

“I’m bored.”

John smiled as he raked his hands through his husband’s too-long curls in his lap. He really _must_ send him to get it cut soon.

“You _just_ finished a case, love,” he replied lightly, rubbing his free hand flat on the dark navy housecoat covering Sherlock’s chest, rubbing the silk in between his fingertips, “in addition to a winning yourself nasty concussion. Do you think it would kill you to sit _still_ for five minutes?”

Sherlock groaned as he pushed up into John’s hand like a cat and shut his eyes, “That was _yesterday_ , John. Do keep up.”

“Damn the citizens of London for _actually_ following the laws for once!” He teased, twisting a silvery lock around his finger and jerking it gently.

“Ow!” Sherlock complained with a scowl, lifting his hand to rub at the distressed hair follicles. “I rather enjoy keeping my hair exactly where it is, thank you.” He slid one eye open and narrowed it at his husband, “Keep that up and I’ll look like _you_ before long.”

John’s hand immediately ran over his own hair and he scowled. He was most definitely _NOT_ losing hair, _NOR_ was his hairline receding any farther than it already had.

“Arse,” he mumbled as the silent telly flipped from a commercial back to the news of London.

“And you prefer it that way,” Sherlock quipped with a wry smile as the hand in his hair stopped and the man flushed above him.

_Interesting_ , he thought. _Nearly two decades and the topic still makes him blush._

He crossed his arms over his chest as John continued his ministrations and sighed, “Yes well Mr. Wentworth was a rather dull criminal. Of _course_ someone stealing information about shipping methods and publically researching fishing procedures and patterns would have a hide-out _somewhere_ on a dock. You could tell it was in a shipyard by the grit in the bottom of the pictures. Really, John. It’s something even the _Yard_ could have come up with before long.”

John shook his head and twisted Sherlock’s curls in his fingers as a chink of a key in the metal doorknob below caught his ear.

“You hear that?” He asked quietly as he heard the door open and shut down the stairs and a familiar set of footsteps climb up the stairwell.

“Evelyn!” Sherlock said with a smile, sitting up straight and fixing his hair; nearly knocking over his husband in the motion.

Both men listened as the steps hurried a little faster up the stairs and just as they reached the door to the sitting area, they retreated higher up until they heard a door slam with more force than necessary.

“Erm,” John hummed with an exaggerated frown as he turned back to his husband. “Did you _do_ something?”

Sherlock _humphed_ with offence and dropped his jaw, “Why do you always blame _me_?”

“Because normally it’s _your_ fault,” John said plainly as he stood up and padded to the doorway; peering out and up the stairs to Evelyn’s room.

“Is _not_ ,” Sherlock complained as he stood up and joined him at the doorway, gazing up the empty stairs. “Well, she’s rather perturbed.”

“Well no shit, Sherlock!” John scoffed incredulously, earning him a glare from the taller man. He shook his head and slowly stepped up the stairs, waving his husband along, “Come on, then. Let’s go do the whole ‘parent’ thing.”

“Dreadful,” Sherlock moaned sarcastically as he followed, rubbing at the still sore spot on his skull.

John paused just before the door and he chewed his lip nervously as he heard sparse sobs muffled by something like a pillow barely coming from the doorway. He frowned at Sherlock and knocked quietly on the wooden door, “Evelyn, love? Are you all right?”

There was a rustle of fabric and an audible sniffle before a reply came, “I’m fine, Daddy. I’m just… I’m fine.”

He eased the door open with a light creak and his eyes laid up on her lying flat on her bed, left arm draped over her face to completely conceal her eyes and  right hand clenching and unclenching nervously on the duvet. He stepped through the doorway and watched Sherlock follow suit before sitting on the edge of her bed, “You’ll have to forgive me for not believing you. You are a rather terrible liar.”

She sighed through her nose as she felt the mattress dip and clenched the hand of the arm covering her eyes as well, “I’m _fine._ I just… I wanted to be _home_.”

Sherlock dipped down and pressed a kiss to her exposed forehead before sitting cross-legged on the ground beside her bed, “You’ve accomplished your directive. Why don’t you tell us what’s the matter?”

Evelyn’s bottom lip trembled but she pinched the apples of her cheeks and forced a thin smile with her lips, “Just a little bit of over-reacting on my part. I assure you, it’s nothing to worry about.”

John rubbed her ankle with a sincere look of hope on his expression, “Why don’t I make you a nice cuppa, hmm? Might perk you up a bit then we can talk about what’s upset you so much, yeah?”

Evelyn opened her mouth as if to speak again, but when she felt her throat constrict with emotion, she pinched her hidden eyes tight and just nodded her head vigorously.

John patted her knee as he stood and smiled, “I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock half-smiled and watched the doctor pad out of the room and down the stairs out of earshot before leaning close to the bed and whispering in a serious tone, “Are you pregnant?”

The question shocked away her melancholy temporarily and she lifted her arm to narrow one eye at her father, “ _What_?”

Sherlock donned an exasperated expression and sighed, “I loathe repeating myself. _Are_ you? I assure you, I’ll take the news far better than your father so you’d better spit it out before he comes back if that’s the case. We’ll figure something out; I’ll just need to-”

“That’s,” she interrupted, draping her arm back down and shaking her head, “that’s not it, Dad.”

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and shook his head, “Of course not. Good.”

Evelyn half smiled as she heard the relief flush through his system and puffed out her cheeks, “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

She lifted her arm to expose one eye again and caught his soft gaze, “Do you think you could- erm- put some cold water on a flannel for me? It’s just that-”

“The cool constricts the blood vessels,” he finished as he stood gracefully, ruffling her hair. “I was an adolescent once, too.”

“Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth,” Evelyn teased weakly, with one eye exposed enough to catch the expression of indignation her father shot her before smiling and treading lightly down the stairs.

Sherlock padded back into the sitting area and through to the kitchen; pulling a clean flannel from the drawer and running it under the sink on the coldest setting.

“What’s that for?” John questioned as he poured the tea and set about fixing it to every individual’s taste preference.

“Evelyn,” Sherlock replied, wringing the cloth out in the sink. He smiled wryly, turning to catch John’s reaction before adding, “She’s not pregnant by the way; if you were concerned.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed John’s mind and it shocked his heart into silence for a beat, “Preg-? God, no. I’m- Christ- good. That’s- uh- that’s good.” He wiped a hand over his face as Sherlock smirked at him and headed back to the stairway.

He wrapped his housecoat tighter around him as he traversed up the familiar wooden steps and pressed the door open to see Evelyn sitting cross-legged on her bed with her head in her hand and her elbow on her knee.

“Don’t look-”

“I don’t have to see to know where you are,” Sherlock interrupted as he closed his eyes and mapped a straight path to where she sat and held the cloth out to her blindly. “I’m not looking.”

Evelyn smiled at the fanned out lashes and gladly accepted the flannel, pressing the refreshing coldness to her face feeling the redness and puff receding ever so slowly from her eyes and cheeks. Sherlock traced long fingers on the side of her bed and down a bit before sitting down and holding his hand out expectantly.

The young woman sighed as her heat seeped into the flannel and she wiped her face clean before noticing her father’s patient hand. She folded the used cloth and placed in his grip, mumbling her quiet thanks.

“Is it safe?” He whispered back, cocking an eyebrow and wrapping his fingers around the cloth in his hand.

She nodded before the obvious struck her and she nearly kicked herself, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay now.”

Sweet blue eyes opened and landed on Evelyn who pulled up the corner of her lip in a half-smile that was returned by Sherlock before the doctor walked in with a very impressive carrying system for three mismatched teacups.

“Alright,” he said, passing each their own cup, “that ought to make things a little easier to deal with.” He pulled the chair from Evelyn’s desk towards the side of her bed and sat down, sipping on his own cup and humming contentedly.

Evelyn did the same and felt the warm milk-and-honeyed-Lady Grey tea slip down her throat and soothe her irritations and worries. Comfortable silence filled the room until Evelyn took her last swallow and sighed as she flopped back down on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

John took the hint of her acceptance of the discussion and set his cup down on her bedside table and clasped his hands in his lap, “So, what’s the matter, Eevee?”

She sucked in her lips and shook her head as she studied the square-shaped-cut still contrasted against the white of her ceiling, “I’m just… I don’t know- frustrated?”

“With?”

“ _Everything_ ,” she sighed, clapping her hands over her face, but allowing her mouth to remain free. “I love Uni- really, I do- but I’m struggling and I can’t understand _why_.”

“You’re a bright young woman, Evelyn,” Sherlock said softly, rubbing on her ankle, “I can’t imagine you struggling too terribly.”

“Neither can _I_!” She hollered a little too loudly, waving her hands. “ _That’s_ why it’s bothering me so much!”

“Okay, struggling how?” John asked, furrowing his brow.

“I just- I don’t even- ugh- okay, let’s start with what happened today.” She sighed, pinching her eyes tight and clenching her fists at her sides. “Okay so I have this professor and he’s a right tosser anyways and he gave us an exam. He’s my English professor and you both _know_ how well-read I am and how much I enjoy writing and reading and he’s just _so_ \- urgh!” She sucked in a deep breath puffed out her cheeks as she tried to regain her composure. “Today he called the term rape, ‘unintentional sexual encounters’. Like what a bloody arse- who _says_ shite like that? You _don’t_! It’s not right, and especially when it’s going on _all_ over campus-”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock interjected, suddenly a mixture of curious and worried.

“There’s been a rise in reported rapes on campus and the damn professor put it off like it was the _girls’_ faults because they were out. It’s _disgusting_. I was actually going to ask you to help me investigate it soon, since those are only the _reported_ incidents and I want to get to the bottom of this before it gets out of control.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” John said softly, raking a hand through his hair. “So you’re upset because your professor is a prick?”

Evelyn shrugged, “Yes and no. We just got our first exam back today.” She reluctantly lifted her hip and plucked the crumpled papers in her fist. She scowled and tossed it across the room, “It was stupid! Who the hell needs to know how many bloody boards the main character pulled up in _‘A Tell Tale Heart_ ’? Do you? I certainly never thought it was a vital piece of information, but apparently Professor Lezotte does! But the way it’s three. _Three_ damn boards. Like what kind of question is that? And then he asks us to write a response about our _own damn opinions_ on a group of stories we read and _apparently_ my opinion is _wrong_!” She pursed her brows and flopped her arm back over her eyes as she felt emotion tighten in her throat. “How can you get marked off for an _opinion_? It doesn’t make any bloody sense! I don’t understand what I did wrong! I _know_ the material. I _know_ the correct literary interpretation. I _know_ how to _read_! I’ve been reading since before I could _speak_ so why am I doing so poorly? It doesn’t make any sense!”

Sherlock stood and plucked the crumpled exam from the floor, flattening it out on the table before flipping through the pages with a stoic face, “‘ _Which event in George Orwell’s ‘Nineteen-eighty-four’ had the most impact on you?_ ’ Your answer is sufficient and correct as far as I am aware.”

“Exactly!” Evelyn exclaimed, waving a hand in the air. “I have _read_ the stories. I _know_ what the bloody author was trying to convey, so I don’t understand how he can tell me that I ‘do not possess a correct literary interpretation of the work’. It’s a load of tripe and it frustrates me to no end because I’ve never in my entire life scored so low on a test and I don’t know how to fix it.” She clenched her jaw as her chest burned, “Normally it wouldn’t bother me so much, but literature is something I’m _good_ at. So does this mean I’m not smart enough for university if I can’t even pass an exam for an introductory literature class? Because I feel like an _idiot_ and I can’t even fix it.” She let out a shaky breath and felt emotion choke in her throat. “I don’t know _how_ to study! Not the way they want. I’ve never had to and I don’t know what to do to fix this because when I went and talked to him after class, he just brushed me off and told me to stop bothering him during class when he’s being a right prick!”

“Oh, darling,” John fussed, rubbing steady hand on her shoulder with a smile, “I’m sure this was just a hiccup. You’re plenty brilliant and you know it. Why else would the Yard let you join us on cases if you weren’t the crème de le crème?”

“But Daddy,” she complained, pinching her eyes tight enough that a tear ran down her flushed cheek. “Fifty percent of my grade was based on questions regarding my _opinions_ and I got them _wrong_. How do I fix how I think? I don’t- I don’t really want to. I feel like I think fine, but apparently I don’t and I don’t know how to fix it!”

Her chest heaved with heavy breaths and she cried, “I feel stupid. I’ve never felt that way before. I just want to do well and I keep screwing up in all my classes and besides Abigail, I haven’t made any friends because they’re all snobby trust-fund kids who refuse to do anything against the professor’s opinion and that wouldn’t normally bother me, but it’s frustrating because I’m just trying to do everything right and I keep doing the exact _opposite_.”

She rolled on her side and curled her legs up as she face the wall of her room, “I just wanted to be _home._ With my books and the smell of my room and tea and the sound of the violin and- God what’s wrong with me?” She finished with sob muffled by her hands.

Sherlock huffed through his nostrils and pushed himself back on her bed until his back was against the wall and he faced her, “Nothing is wrong with you, Evelyn. You are a brilliant, beautiful young woman and we are _proud_ of you, no matter what.”

“I can’t even pass an _English_ exam, Dad,” she groaned, pulling herself into a tighter ball. “How can I be expected to do anything valuable in my life if I can’t even do _that_?”

Sherlock tapped her knee until she looked up and he extended his arm towards her, “Come here, little dove.” He tapped his chest, “Let’s boost those Oxytocin levels, shall we?”

Evelyn lifted one eyelid before sniffling and sitting up to wrap her arms around the thin detective, burying her face in his familiar scent of old wood and amber warmth. Sherlock embraced her affectionately and planted a kiss to her temple, “You’ll be fine darling, just relax. One exam grade is not going to ruin your life, I promise.”

“I just-”

Sherlock pressed a soft finger pad to her lips, “Shhh, no more. You’ve explained the issue and if you continue to repeat it, you’ll only distress yourself more.” He ran a hand through her hair and sighed, looking back up at John who perched on the side of Evelyn’s bed and rubbed at her back.

“You know,” John said quietly, “babies learn how to walk by continually falling down.” Evelyn pulled her face away from her father to look at John with an expression of misunderstanding. He held his hands palms-out, “The thing is, if they didn’t fall down, they’d never know how to get back up and they’d never learn how to walk.” He rested a hand on her shoulder and smiled, “You just tripped a little bit, Eevee, so now you get to learn what it takes to get up and walk.”

“You give really weird advice,” Evelyn sniffed with a smile as she wrapped her arms around him.

He smiled back and shrugged, “Yes, well I’m a doctor and not a poet for a reason.”

Evelyn sat up straight and rubbed at her face before blinking up at the roof, “Sorry, I just- I’ve never been more ashamed to pick up a grade and I kind of panicked. I’m still trying to get used to not being the smartest kid in the room.”

Sherlock scoffed, “I wouldn’t get too used to it darling, good grades don’t always correlate to bright students; only to those who know how to play the game.”

“I’ve never likes games,” Evelyn pouted, crossing her arms over her chest and lounging back on her bed, next to John’s hips.

Suddenly the doorbell buzzed and John twisted his wrist to check his watch before looking out of the darkening window, “It’s a bit late for a client, don’t you think?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and stood, turning his head before stepping out of the door, “Not a client. They held it down for a whole two seconds. It’s someone looking for something.”

He padded down the steps and opened the door with a cocked brow as he looked down at the girl poised to knock on the wood before it was pulled away from her. Her complexion was darker than someone of English decent and her straight chestnut hair was half-pulled up in a hair elastic; cheeks flushed from the evening chill and a product of her seemingly brilliant smile.

She dropped her hand from where it hung in the air and extended it to him with a wary grin, “Hi there! Do you happen to be either Mr. Holmes or Mr. Watson?”

He narrowed his eyes at her before eying her extended hand, “What do you want?”

His brashness obviously startled her, but seemed to not dampen her spirits, “My name’s Abigail White. I’m Evelyn Watson’s roommate. I’m assuming you’re-”

“Tedious!” Sherlock exclaimed, holding a hand up before ushering her in and closing the door behind her.

She smiled, “Definitely Mr. Holmes then. It’s real nice to meet you!”

He rolled his eyes and headed up the stairs, “Yes, yes, pleasure’s all mine, nonsense, come on then.”

Abigail shivered the cool off of her and slipped out of her outer coat, hanging it on a post as she followed the ebony-haired man up the well-worn steps and into a room with golden and green wallpaper and books filling every corner.

“Abigail?”

She smiled when she heard the familiar voice and ran over to the bed to wrap her friend in her arms, “Evelyn! I was worried about you!”

Evelyn furrowed her brow, used to Abigail’s proclivity for tactile contact, but unused to her concern, “Why?”

Abigail pulled back and tucked her own hair behind her ear, “Well you ran out of class like a horse in the derby and you never came back to the dorm. Made me nervous,” she finished with a quirky smile.

John smiled and stood before her, extending his hand, “Well it’s nice to hear she has friends watching out for her. John Watson.”

“Abigail White,” she grinned back, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “I’m sure she’d do the same. Besides, I don’t know if you’ve heard about the mishaps goin’ on on campus.”

John chewed his cheek and nodded, “Evelyn was just telling us there’d been some unexplained rapes.”

Abigail frowned and nodded, “Yeah. Just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“How did you even get here?” Evelyn questioned, sitting up straight and patting the bed so her friend to join her.

“Oh! I got the address from Jeremy.” She laughed and ran a hand through her straight hair, “I was worried I’d end up on the wrong side of the UK, though. Y’all’s addresses are hard to understand, so I just kinda hoped there was only one Baker Street in London.”

“It would be counterintuitive to have multiple streets of the same name in one city,” Sherlock said sarcastically his eyes leveling the young woman where she sat.

Abigail immediately felt his scrutiny and smiled, sitting up straight, “Oh! You’re where she gets that trick, aren’t you?” When the detective gave her nothing in reply besides a quirk of his brow, she laughed, “Oh come on! She said you could tell me my life story by the mustard on my sleeve, is that true? Because, not gonna lie- that’s pretty epic.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, remaining silent and John grinned, whispering to his daughter, “I think he likes her.”

She giggled and smiled back, “I think you’re right.”

Abigail sighed and rolled her eyes, “Well fine then. If you’re not gonna ‘deduce’ me, at least tell me what the plan is.”

“Plan?” John asked.

Abigail shrugged, “I saw that look in Evelyn’s eye today. She’s about to start a case. I want in!”

“Oh, For God’s sakes,” Sherlock complained, shaking his head. “Things like this are not _games_ , Audrey.”

“Oh, come on, Dad- that wasn’t even close-”

“You can’t just waltz around without a purpose.”

Instead of harboring any offense, Abigail smiled and tilted her head, slipping into a high-English accent, “An unknown face is never without purpose, sir.” She then switched into something that sounded vaguely like a German accent, but with a hint of a southern twang, “The trick to gaining information is learning how to hide in plain sight.” She winked and jumped back into her own American drawl, “How can you do that if everyone in London knows your face?”

John’s slack-jawed expression was profound and he shook himself from his shock with a light laugh, “Well, um, she certainly has a point.”

“Thanks!” She grinned.

“So you want to go… undercover?” Evelyn questioned with a brow.

“Well sure! Why not?”

“Well, I don’t know, “Evelyn scoffed. “Because you don’t know how and it’s dangerous!”

“Danger is my middle name,” Abigail teased. “Well actually, it’s Shannon, but that’s not important. But _come on_! We could do it together!”

“Yeah, _that_ sounds like a plan,” Evelyn sighed, eying Sherlock.

“You watch my drink, I watch yours,” Abigail pleaded with her smile. “Sounds plausible to me and then _maybe_ we could catch this asshole!”

“Rather pushy, aren’t you?” John quipped, finding affection for the girl so very like his own daughter glowing in his chest.

“In my blood,” she admitted with a smile. “So?”

Evelyn chewed her cheek as she debated it, “As long as you follow my lead, I think it’ll be okay. All right?”

John nodded and glanced at the detective who still had his eyes narrowed at the young American. There was just _something_ off about her. His deductions swam in his vision and one word out of the many ( _dog-person, near sighted, older sister, size 14, Libertarian, Autistic Spectrum Disorder in family- has similar characteristics, optimistic, loud, patriotic_ ) stood out:

 

_Façade._

Her smile was genuine, he could tell that much from the way she spoke and carried herself. Her personality was hardly something of fabrication to be implemented so… _brazenly._ For the most part, Abigail Shannon White seemed sincere, but Sherlock couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was a layer of _something_ that he was missing. _Something_ didn’t quite add up when he studied her. Last time that had happened, he ended up on the wrong side of a gun and the memory sent ice into his stomach.

Noticing his husband’s eye, he quickly cleared his throat and nodded, “Yes. Will your Jarrod friend be providing technology again? We all know how well that went _last_ time.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and picked up the glasses she had kept from the event in question, “Absolutely. _Jeremy’s_ technology gave us the evidence to put that man behind bars- if you remember so clearly.”

“Yes, that’s all very well,” Sherlock mumbled as he straightened his housecoat and nodded towards the door.

“Let’s make arrangements, shall we?”


	30. Keep Your Hand Close to Your Chest

“Are you seriously going to _wear_ that?”

John eyed his husband down with a wry smile and a cocked hip as he pulled on his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. The man in question was clad in painfully tight-looking black jeans accompanied with an equally corset-tight sable button-down. John almost groaned as he caught a glimpse of the buttons that were screaming with every move the lithe body before him made. Inky hair dipped into a pale brow and John had to look towards the kitchen in order to regain his rapidly deteriorating composure.

The detective smirked and gestured to his darkly rimmed eyes and winked, “You like it, don’t you?” When the doctor refused to reply, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John’s lips suggestively and grinned, “Oh, you most definitely do.”

“I didn’t say that-”

“You’re not denying it either-”

John rolled his eyes and sighed, “Fine.” His cheeks flushed and his gaze lowered to the ground. “I do.”

Sherlock slipped on his second black leather boot and smiled at the flustered doctor before clomping across the sitting room and lifting John’s chin with a singular finger, “Well go on. Look.”

Staring back at the doctor was a pair of brilliant sapphire eyes lined in ebony coal that only accentuated the shimmer and madness behind the hue, causing the doctor to swallow the thick lump in his throat, down casting his gaze. He cleared his throat nervously, “You, erm, you look nice.”

Sherlock pressed a heavy kiss down to John’s thinned lips and growled, his voice dark and heady, sending heat down John’s spine to pool in his stomach, “Oh come now, John. You’re certainly more imaginative than that. Try again.”

John pursed his lips before waving the detective away, his pulse sky rocketing in his ears, “I’d rather not or I just might.”

The detective snorted and caught John just as he turned away, wrapping his arms around his husband’s shorter stature and nuzzling into the short metallic hair. He inhaled the familiar fragrance and hummed contentedly as his hand splayed over John’s steady heartbeat. “I love you, John.”

John hummed and the vibrations echoed in Sherlock’s chest as the doctor leaned back into the embrace, “Mmm, I love you, too.” He gripped Sherlock’s arms to his body before pulling away, “I’d love you even more if you’d let me be so we’re not late.”

Sherlock grinned and pulled him back with a slight _oomf_. He drew his breath hot on John’s neck and nipped at his ear, drawling out every syllable for all it was worth, “Punctuality is _boring_.”

“Would you _stop_ that?” John chided half-heartedly, finally retracting himself and running a hand through his ruffled hair.

Sherlock was pleased to see the flush that crept up his neck and into his cheeks, bending forward to kiss his lips once more before straightening up and flattening John’s askew collar with elegant fingers. He smirked, fire lighting in his mischievous blue eyes, “You ‘ _look nice’_ , too.”

John scoffed as he tucked his gun in his back and straightened himself out, “Yeah, thanks. You’re gonna freeze tonight; you know that?”

Sherlock rounded on him like a predator and dipped down to growl in his ear, “I suppose you’ll have to keep my blood heated.” He clicked his tongue harshly on the T, “ _Doctor_.”

“You’re terrible,” John mumbled, his cheeks an alarming shade of crimson, “absolutely bloody vicious.”

Sherlock hummed as he pulled his well-worn leather jacket from its post and slipped it on, “Ready?”

“Terribly,” John grumbled as he passed the smirking detective and stepped down the stairs, pausing before allowing the chilled November air to strike his face. He puffed out a white cloud of smoke into the street before he heard the detective shut the door behind them. This November had been unreasonably cold already and John could hardly stand the thought of what the heart of winter would bring if the November nights already dipped into the single digits and (horrifyingly) sometimes even less than that.

“Christ!” He shivered, as Sherlock came up behind him and huddled next to him, “It’s bloody _freezing_!”

“Not quite,” the detective muttered with chattering teeth as he hailed a cab with a swift jerk of his arm.

“Only a few degrees off!” John grumbled, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and snuggling his face down into his dark grey scarf.

“Well come on, then,” Sherlock urged, directing John with a guiding force on his shoulder blade towards the cab door.

John shuffled in and rubbed his thighs through his jeans, vigorously as the detective smirked at his husband’s distress. The doctor crossed his arms and slid down the seat like a petulant child, griping, “I _hate_ winter.”

 

***

 

Abigail was practically vibrating in her seat as Evelyn pinned the mic on her hairpin and tucked it near her ear, “Would you sit _still_?”

The brunette immediately straightened up like a soldier and pursed her lips to control her excitement, “I’m _sorry_ , I’m just _excited_!” She giggled and a tuft of silky brown hair slipped into her vision, “I feel like a tornado headed straight for a trailer park!”

Jeremy rolled his eyes as he tapped along on his laptop configuring her device so that he could hear and see what she saw through the eyes of her hairclip, “You’re about to put your life on the line to catch a criminal we _may_ or _may_ not find there and you’re just chuffed about it. You two are made for each other.”

“Hey, back off!” Michael teased, flipping Evelyn’s pillow on her bed where he lounged, poking his feet at the younger man at the farthest edge. “That one’s mine.”

“I don’t belong to anyone, thank you,” Evelyn interjected sharply, sending a stern eye to the blonde smiling at her.

“I am yours and you are mine; isn’t that how it goes?” He said with a grin that made the young woman blush as she turned her attentions back to the girl sitting at her own desk.

“Well you certainly are his type, Abigail,” she mumbled to the girl in front of her.

Jeremy hummed as he pulled up the document Evelyn had prepared from her research of the latest victims. His brows reached his hairline as his eyes danced back and forth between the images of the victims and Abigail, “Damn near perfect match.”

He swung the laptop around so that Abigail could see and she chewed her cheek in contemplation. True to Abigail’s suggestion, every girl had full cheeks, straight brunette hair- at least to the length of their shoulders, dark eyes and full figures. She nearly laughed at the convenience, “Damn, ‘bout as bad as Ted Bundy.” She scoffed, “All we need are the jean skirts.”

“Oh, that’s so terribly _nineties_ ,” Michael teased with a lisp that earned him a smack on the exposed gut from Jeremy.

“Serves you right,” Evelyn called out as her mobile began to ring and she raced down to the door to let in her fathers.

As she opened the hall door for them, she grabbed John by the neck and pressed her warm lips to his flushed, frozen cheek.

“Daddy!”

He smiled and gripped her tight to him, “Hey there, sweetheart. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” She pulled away and almost recoiled as she took in her other father’s visage, “Oh, Dad. Um, well you look…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and frowned, “The bar owner owes me a favor. I’ll be working in there tonight. That way I can keep tabs on the drinks going out just in case one of the employees is the perpetrator.”

She half-smiled at him and wrapped her arms around his tall body, “Well you certainly look the part.” She laughed as she herded them down the hall towards her room, “You should really teach me a trick or two about eyeliner, Dad.” She winked at him as she nodded towards John, “Daddy’s flush obviously isn’t _just_ from the weather.”

“Evelyn!” John called out, horrified as Sherlock quietly chuckled and ruffled Evelyn’s golden locks, shaking his head. The he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Maybe one day, love.”

Evelyn smiled as she unlocked her dorm door and allowed the two older gentlemen inside, sentencing them to the barrage of greetings from eager young faces. Michael immediately sat up straight from sprawling out on the mattress and cleared his throat, “Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson.”

“Hello, Michael,” John said cheerfully, stepping in and clapping Jeremy on the shoulder as Sherlock nodded at the blonde boy with narrowed eyes, “Hello there, Jeremy. How goes the techno-nonsense?”

Jeremy smiled, “Hey, Doctor Watson! I’m just setting up Abigail’s camera right now, but she keeps _moving!”_

“I’m _sorry!”_

“No you’re not!”

“Christ, what are you; five?” Evelyn teased as she wrapped her arms around Sherlock from behind and leaned against the side of his chest, looking up at him, “So do you know the game plan?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” John suggested, pride swelling in his chest as Evelyn brightened up and snatched Jeremy’s computer from him, with a useless sound of distress.

She turned the screen around after opened up her document again and allowed everyone to see, “Alright, these are the five latest victims I’ve been able to track down and interview. As you can see: they’re all late teens, early twenties; long brunette hair; quite pretty; and easy-going.” She flipped to a chart showing timelines, “Not a single one of them knew each other and they have nothing in common besides their looks. Based on the timelines they gave me- pretty much a window of when they left the bars to when they stopped remembering anything- it gives us a window of opportunity stretching around _here_.” She bounced over and jumped onto her bed to a map hanging on the wall and made a circle around a small segment of the city. “Based on walking speeds of intoxicated young women, I’d suggest the circle is right around this area.”

“There are two clubs in that area,” Sherlock stated plainly, examining the map, “ _The Broken Lantern_ and _Parliament House_. Do you have a preference to one?”

Evelyn shook her head and shrugged, “Not really. It’s more of a guess than an actual science at this point. I suppose we can go to your debtor’s club tonight and test the waters.”

“ _Broken Lantern_ it is, then,” he stated, standing and plucking a pin from Evelyn’s pin cushion on her desk to fix it on the spot on the map. He turned to her and cocked a brow, “Is that all you have on victimology?”

Evelyn smirked and crinkled her nose, “Oh ye of little faith.” She plucked the laptop up again and presented the screen to her father. “I asked them a little bit about what they were doing in the clubs. You know? Were they alone? Were they with friends? Did they wear rings to fend guys off?” She slid up the document, “Turns out, they were all relatively outgoing, but kept to themselves the nights they were attacked. All single, mind you. They all had several friends with them, but none of them were really into the dancing scene and stayed on the sidelines. Anyways, three of the five were designated drivers or designated sobers so they only had water which adds the problem of how are they getting drugged.”

“Did their tox screens show up with anything?” John questioned as he peered over Sherlock’s shoulder at the screen.

Evelyn groaned, “That’s the thing. They _all_ refused rape kits. He’s going after girls he knows won’t ask for help. It’s super frustrating.”

“Why wouldn’t they want him to get caught?” Abigail queried, chewing her cheek. “Hell, if that happened to me, I’d chase the bastard down myself- Oh! Uh, sorry.” She said shyly popping her hand over her mouth at the curse.

Jeremy shrugged as he leaned back against the wall on Evelyn’s bed, “Pride, shame, their parents might find out; hell, there’s tons of reasons. Pop an after-morning pill and you’re all good, they think. Sometimes they think if there’s no proof, then they can pretend it never happened.”

“Which is _why_ we need to get the bastard off the streets,” Evelyn said sternly, eying the screen again. “Abigail is going to sit at a table skirting the edge of the club and I’ll be a few tables away.” She looked the brunette dead in the eye as she continued, “You’ve got to be native. Every girl so far is English born and raised; you might ward him off if he thinks you’re foreign.”

Abigail shrugged, “Oh, I dunno. If he thinks I’m from across the sea wouldn’t I be less likely to have people here that could help me? I’d be a sitting duck to him, yeah?”

Sherlock shook his head, steepling his fingers under his nose, “Not necessarily. Normally the only Americans here around this time are tourists and University students. Most of the latter are trust fund children and have the means to prosecute anyone to the fullest extent of the law. He’d not risk that kind of threat.”

“Exactly,” Evelyn added with a frown. “So you’re English tonight. What’s your name?”

Abigail grinned from ear to ear, “Oh, do I get to make it up? Sweet! Alright, um.” She hummed as she thought about it and when she spoke again, High London, similar to Sherlock’s, slipped off her tongue, “Bridget Harrison. Born and raised in Westminster, and I like dogs and long walks on the beach-”

“Oh my God, enough,” Evelyn laughed, running a hand through her hair, “Alright, that sounds believable enough. Michael, you’re gonna be-”

“Standing watch with the geek unless something goes down,” Michael groaned before chuckling. “Someone’s got to keep him company.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and turned to her fathers, “Okay, so Dad, you’re going to be in the bar, where’s Daddy going?”

John smiled and raked a hand through his hair, “I’ll talk around and see if I can find anything out.”

Evelyn raised a brow, “You think people are just going to chat with you about it?”

John grinned, “I wasn’t called ‘Three-Continent-Watson’ for nothing, you know.”

Sherlock scowled and slipped his phone from his back pocket checking the time, “It’s half eleven. Shall we?”

Jeremy held up a finger as he plucked a few more keys on his computer, “Hold on, one moment… Got it! Yeah, we’re ready.”

Evelyn pulled Abigail from her seat and hugged her tight before slipping on her repaired camera glasses, “Let’s try to not get you killed, hmm?”

Abigail smirked, “Oh, but to die would be an _awfully _great adventure.__ "

 

***

 

“This is _boring_ ,” Abigail moaned quietly as she sipped on her water, searching for any suspicious faces in the crowd of humans capitulating to the oppressive pulse of the house music. They’d spent over almost two hours searching around the club and had found no evidence of foul play _anywhere_. To Evelyn, it was infuriating.

“What? Did you expect he was going to pick you up right as we walked through the door?” Evelyn sighed, dragging her hand down her face as she peered into the crowd again.

Abigail’s voice went over in her ear piece again with a dejected sigh, “Well with me all dolled up like this, I figured at least _someone_ would bite!”

Evelyn smirked and rolled her eyes turning her attention to the bar scene across the way.

John waltzed up to the bar, smiling at the frantic man behind it and tapped the tabletop, earning his attention.

“John!”

The doctor smirked at the sheen of sweat on his husband’s brow and the madly wide silver eyes creasing in a smile at him. He smiled back and gripped Sherlock’s hand for a moment before pulling away, “You make a rather dashing barkeep.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he filled another glass with tonic and set about mixing in the harder drinks and handing them to the patrons, “This is absolutely ridiculous. I haven’t stopped moving since the doors opened! Yes, thank you.”

John smirked and looked out into the crowd, “Think I could steal you away for a bit?”

Sherlock smiled wryly and nodded, “God yes. Give me a moment.”

John did just that until a dark figure pulled at his arm and led him into the alley out behind the establishment. Sherlock leaned his entire weight against the rough brick wall and sighed heavily, producing a thick cloud of smoke to part his lips.

John leaned up against him after checking to see that no unsavory characters had followed them and wrapped his arms around the thin man, inhaling the scents of a hundred different concoctions and sweat, “Find anything out?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, “It’s practically impossible. I don’t really think I thought this through. As far as I can tell, it’s not any of the barkeeps.” He fished a single cigarette from his leather jacket and plucked a lighter from his jeans, biting the carcinogen betwixt his teeth as he continued to speak, “I’ve checked; no missing liquids; no _extra_ liquids; no residue on any of the bottles; none of them have any rings or sleeves to their wrist that could hide anything that I wouldn’t notice-”

“I thought you’d finally kicked the habit,” John said disapprovingly against Sherlock’s chest as the foul cloud escaped his lips with a hum of gratitude.

“John, it might have escaped your notice, but I have not inhaled such a sweetly sour aroma since our daughter was born. I don’t think one after eighteen years is such a detriment. Hush.”

John rolled his eyes as he watched the familiar jaw extend and exhale smoke into the frigid air, his husband’s full lips O-ing around it. Sherlock caught the shorter man’s eye and smiled, taking another drag from the cigarette and puffing out little circles into the air that earned him an innocent laugh from John.

“I always wondered how people did that,” he admitted, watching the little O’s float away and dissipate into nothing.

“Well I have been informed that I have a rather talented mouth,” Sherlock teased, reveling in the flush that crept up John’s neck and cheeks.

“ _Anyways_!” John broke away, situating himself flush against the cold wall and fixing his stance to make up for the extra pressure building up from his mind’s insistence.

Sherlock grinned and closed his eyes, absorbing every carcinogen in the smoke he was inhaling, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, have you turned up any information, John?” Sherlock grinned, noticing John’s reluctance to look him in the eye.

“Oh, erm- yeah,” John stammered, taking out a notepad from his back pocket and flipping over a few pages. “I’ve been asking around, especially with the young ladies for anyone that gave them the creeps, or bothered them and they all gave me the description of this bloke.” He pulled out his phone and flashed Sherlock a dark snapshot of a man sitting at a table looking out into the crowd. “Bald, kind of heavy, black suit jacket and jeans; but the thing is- is that he’s never actually _done_ anything to anyone.” At Sherlock’s furrowed brow John continued, “I watched him for an _hour_. He doesn’t ever _move_. He just sits there like he’s waiting for someone and that’s what the girls told me, too. He just sits there and watches people.” John accepted his phone back and shrugged, “So that’s got me thinking- what if he doesn’t drug them here?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he thought about the possibility, “He follows them, you think?”

John nodded, “Yeah, I mean, it can’t be that hard. Magnussen’s men drugged me in broad daylight right outside our flat and no one had been the wiser. I’d think I’m worth a little more fight than drunken birds.”

“Maybe so,” Sherlock hummed, dropping the used butt on the ground and snuffing it out with his boot. “That would explain why we haven’t had any luck. Are you sure he’s still there?”

“Yeah, he’s about three tables east of Evelyn.” John then straightened up and pinned Sherlock with his gaze, “Speaking of Evelyn, you’re really taking a back seat on all this. You haven’t tried to run this at _all._ Why is that?”

In the cool of the night, steam began to rise from Sherlock’s heated cheeks as he shrugged and looked down the alley way into the streets of London. “If she wants to be of any decent caliber, she’ll have to know how to do this herself. I want to see how far she gets without any help.” He raised his brow and looked back down to John, “I must say, I’m rather impressed. The research she did, alone, was exemplary. She’ll make a suitable detective yet.”

“Yes, well,” John sighed happily, his teeth beginning to chatter with the chill, “at the rate she’s going, I’d be surprised if she wasn’t running the Yard before we retire.”

Sherlock smirked, “Perhaps.”

John shivered and pulled Sherlock’s rolled sleeve, “Come on, let’s finish this so we can get back home- I’m _freezing_.”

Sherlock obliged, “Yes, however, I’d like to keep back and watch for our man after our children leave. If he does follow them like you suggest, I’d prefer catching him tonight.”

John snorted as he opened the door and shook the chill off. At Sherlock’s questioning gaze, John shook his head and smiled, navy eyes alight, “ _Our children_?”

Sherlock flushed again and shrugged, “I suppose the proper term would be young adults, but seeing as we do not actually have any relation to any of them, save one, I suppose-”

John interrupted him with a chaste kiss and smiled as he pulled away, “‘Our children’ is fine. Never let it be said that you are not the most sentimental sod, I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Sherlock’s dramatic expression of offense made John chuckle and he patted his husband’s arm, “I’ll see you ‘round, love.”

 

***

 

“Three days,” Evelyn moaned into her speaker, _thonking_ her head against the sticky table and immediately regretting it. “Three _bloody_ days and we still have _nothing_.”

Michael’s voice called over her earpiece and she sighed, “I’m calling it. If we don’t catch anything tonight, I say we let it lie. Since we started staking this guy out, nobody else has been hurt.”

Jeremy’s voice was next, “I agree. Maybe he finally got what he was after.”

Evelyn shook her head and sighed, “It doesn’t make any sense though. It doesn’t fit the profile. He was doing it once a week and then upped it to every few days. It doesn’t make sense for him to just _give up_.”

“Maybe I’m just not his type,” Abigail teased into the line. “I mean, we should be happy- maybe he caught wind of us and we scared him off.”

“Unlikely,” Evelyn said sourly, pulling her bag onto her shoulder and tucking in her chair before heading to the bar. “Either way, let’s call it a night. Abigail and I have an exam tomorrow and I’d really rather not have a repeat performance.”

“M’kay,” Jeremy replied and Evelyn could hear the shifting of a laptop shutting and being shoved into a bag. “Michael and I will meet you out front.”

“See y’all in a bit then!” Abigail said cheerfully dropping the practiced English accent.

Evelyn plucked out her earpiece and tapped on the countertop until Sherlock glanced at her while making some concoction of green and blue.

“You’re getting really good at that,” she teased, watching his fluid movements and practiced handiwork.

He smiled and handed the mixture to a nameless patron, “Yes, well practice makes perfect I suppose. I’m sure your father will enjoy my new talents.”

Evelyn scoffed, “He’s boring; you’ll never be able to make anything fun for him.”

He winked, “Oh ye of little faith.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and shifted her back no her shoulder again, raising her voice as a new song rang out over the club, “We’re headed home. I think my plan backfired. I’m sorry I’ve kept you both out all night long for nothing.”

“Have there been any more attacks?” Sherlock queried as he nodded to the head barkeep and wiped his hands on his black jeans.

Evelyn chewed her lip, “You know there haven’t been.”

“Then it wasn’t for naught,” Sherlock reminded her, slipping from behind the bar and following her around the edges of the club. “Sometimes that’s the only victory we get.” They walked together until the detective caught the doctor’s attention across the room with a wave. John stood near the exit, still watching the man he’d been watching for three days now and scowled as the pair came towards him.

“No one has so much as spoken to him since I’ve been watching him,” John complained, raking a hand through his damp short hair.

Evelyn’s shoulders dropped as she looked up to her blonde father, “I think we’re calling the investigation off. We haven’t found anything in three days and there haven’t been any more reported attacks so maybe he got picked up or killed or something.”

John raised his brows and shrugged, “Your call, little bird.”

The three walked to the front of the club and out of the exit, meeting Abigail and catching a glimpse of Jeremy and Michael sprinting across the street from the all-hours café they’d been camping out at.

“Hey y’all!” Abigail smiled as she saw the Baker Street family approach. “Bad luck, huh?”

“Something like that,” Evelyn groaned, slipping a scarf from her bag and tossing it to the brunette who caught it midair.

“Beautiful! I’m freezing!” She said cheerfully, slipping it around her neck. “You weren’t kidding. I don’t think I’ve ever been in so few degrees so long! Right now in Florida, I’d still be wearing a t-shirt and shorts!”

“It’s November!” Jeremy said incredulously as he approached.

“You don’t understand,” she said ruefully. “Back home, I wear shorts on Christmas Day. Sometimes even _that_ is too much.”

“Bollocks,” Michael rolled his eyes.

“You act like I haven’t lived there my entire life!” Abigail huffed with and affronted expression. “Anyways, we should be getting back. It’s really late.”

“My sentiments exactly, Miss White,” Sherlock said plainly, his eyes farther down the road.

Evelyn sighed and wrapped her arms around John and then Sherlock, “Alright, I’ll see you two soon. I love you.”

“We love you, sweetheart,” John replied with a smile, wrapping his gloved hand around Sherlock’s. “Go on, we’ll make sure no one follows.”

Michael set a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder blade and pressed her down the road; nodding at each respective party, “Goodnight Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson. Jeremy and I will make sure the girls get home safely.”

Evelyn scoffed, “More like us girls will make sure you don’t get mugged before you get home, isn’t that right Abigail?”

“Indubitably,” Abigail said smarmily, flipping her hair dramatically and looping her arm around Jeremy’s. “Come on, boys. Protect us from the evils of London with all of your masculine superiority!”

“Oh, now you’re started it,” Jeremy complained at Michael, fixing his arms behind his back and walking along with Abigail down the well-lit street.

“Goodnight! Be safe!” Evelyn called back to her fathers, walking with Michael in a similar fashion and catching up with their friends.

“You too,” Sherlock mumbled more to himself than to anyone around.

John squeezed his hand and smiled, “Come on, Sherlock. I’ll make you a cuppa when we get back.”

Sherlock watched the young people carry on and round the corner before looking back down at his husband, shaking himself from his reveries and thoughts, “Sure.”

 

***

 

“Shame really.”

“What is?” Evelyn questioned as she flipped open her well-worn copy of _The Hobbit_ and plucked the bookmark from its page.

Abigail shrugged as she flipped open her laptop and settled in on her bed, “Just that the first case I get to join y’all on is a dud.”

“Not a _dud_ ,” Evelyn replied, reading through Gollum’s riddles more from memory than from the actual text. “No one else has been hurt, so I’d say it’s quite the accomplishment.”

“Yeah, I guess. I dunno, thought I’d make the newspaper or something and I could send it back home.”

Evelyn chuckled, “You want your family- who are an entire _ocean_ away on another _continent_ \- to know you’re chasing criminals with your roommate you’ve known for three months?”

Abigail rolled her eyes, “Not the strangest thing I’ve done, I’m sure.”

Evelyn smiled as she snuggled into her bed and curled on her side, splaying the book on the mattress in front of her. A comfortable silence filled the room until there was a sharp inhalation from Abigail’s bed.

Evelyn lifted her head to see her friend’s eyes wide open and her jaw dropped slightly in a sort of panic she had yet to see on the American’s face. Her eyes darted on the screen as if reading something and her breathing became labored as she shut her mouth and pinched her lips tight enough to blanche them.

She sat up and raised a hand out to her friend, “Abigail? Are you all right?”

Abigail jumped as if she were shocked to her Evelyn’s voice and the frantic face fell away into a weak smile and she shook her head, “Oh, um, yeah. I’m fine. Really, I just read something and it kind of startled me. No biggie.”

She shut her laptop screen and jumped from her bed, slipping on a thin jacket and her thicker black boots. Evelyn slipped her feet to the edge of her bed and quirked her brow, “Going somewhere?”

“I just need some air,” Abigail said lightly, turning to smile at her friend before heading towards the door. “Get some sleep; I’ll try to be quiet when I come back in.”

Evelyn slipped from her mattress and pulled on her own jacket, “Let me come with you-”

“No!” Abigail yelled back, startling them both into silence. She regained her happy demeanor and smiled, “No, I just- I just need some air. No use in you coming out when we’ve got an exam in the morning.”

“It’s not safe to go out by yourself,” Evelyn bargained, standing in the middle of their room with a winter coat and no shoes. “Besides, you’ll catch your death out there if that’s all you’re wearing.”

“I’ll be fine,” Abigail replied with a smile. “The cold will do me some good. I won’t go too far. Promise. Be back before you know it.” She opened the door and waved before clocking it shut and Evelyn could hear her shoes beating against the carpeted floor at a frequency she could only equate with running.

“Curious thing to do at two in the morning,” Evelyn mumbled to herself, still watching the door, flabbergasted at the strange event. Something in the back of her mind nagged at her until she turned to face the green-cased laptop sitting on Abigail’s bed.

“That’s none of your business, Evelyn Watson,” she reminded herself before she padded over to her bed and shed the jacket, tossing it on the ground. “None of your business at all.”

A voice wriggled in her brain and prodded at her even so. _Why did she act like that? What is she hiding?_

“I don’t need to know,” she chastised herself, shoving her nose back into her book and doing her best to ignore her interest. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

_And satisfaction brought him back_ , the voice replied. _What if she’s in trouble? You wouldn’t want to know you COULD have done something but didn’t for the sake of being polite._

Evelyn growled and tossed the book on her nightstand, flicking off the light before rolling herself up in her bed sheets and forcing herself to close her eyes.

Minutes dragged on and the idle hum of Abigail’s computer grated on her nerves until she jerked out of her bed and flipped the light on, staring at her opposition sitting infuriatingly calmly on the opposite bed.

“Fine!” She bit out, jumping to her feet and padding over to the opposite bed. “Just one look. If it’s not on the screen when I open it, I’ll go back to bed.”

Painstakingly, she opened the laptop lid and was greeted with a page asking for a password.

“Password, password, password,” she hummed wracking her brain for anything she thought might be useful. She attempted three passwords before puffing out her cheeks in frustration.

“What’s the most obvious and obnoxious thing she could use?” She asked herself aloud, checking the door again for any signs that her friend may be approaching and might catch her in the act. Finding none, she typed in one more phrase.

_R3dWH1T3 &8lu3_

She held her breath as she pressed enter and nearly squealed when the log in page disappeared.

Just then her breath was knocked from her by the picture left open on the screen.

Black and white, it looked like it had been taken by a security camera. A bookstore or a library, she figured from the long aisle of books in the shot. In the middle of the snapshot was a dirty-blonde girl, younger than herself, sitting crossed-legged on the floor with a graphic novel opened on her lap. The person in question was oblivious to the camera and made no effort to hide her face from its view.

“Christina,” she breathed, looking over to Abigail’s desk and finding a photograph of younger versions of her roommate and the girl on the screen hugging and smiling together.

“What in the world?” She questioned, slipping to the next photograph that was opened on her screen. It had seemed like she had received an email that immediately popped up several photos so that Abigail couldn’t ignore them.

The next was a photo, same quality and angle, of the same girl walking through a store with a woman that looked so similar that she had to be their mother. She seemed to pout while pushing the trolley as the older woman was looking at cleaning supplies.

Picture after picture were of this young woman at various places, on separate days, doing a whole bunch of _nothing_.

“This doesn’t make _any_ sense,” she muttered to herself, scrolling through the photographs with an uneasy mind. “Is she being blackmailed? For what exactly? What could she have done?”

She felt restlessness settle in her stomach as she attached a thumb drive she kept on her keys to the computer and saved copies of the photos to it.

_Perhaps Uncle Mycroft might have an idea,_ her mind supplied as she set the laptop back to how she had found it and perched on her bed, heavy with the new information.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured to the empty room. “Why would someone send her pictures of her sister?”

She chewed on her lip as she contemplated and was suddenly shaken from her thoughts by her mobile’s alarm going off telling her to get ready for class.

She shook her head, blinking the half-sleep from her eyes and stretching on her mattress from where she had fallen over in the middle of her reveries.

“Morning,” she called out, rubbing at her eyes and awaiting a similar tone to escape from Abigail’s mobile, but none came. Worry settled in her stomach as she flicked on the lamp and found no other person inhabiting the room aside from herself.

“Abigail?” She called out, thinking perhaps her friend had slipped into the loo without disturbing her half-slumber. She slinked from the bed and checked, only to find nothing even remotely settling. She chewed her lip in worry and plucked her mobile from where it had been charging dialing the familiar number. A few rings later, her desired contact picked up.

“Do you have _any_ bloody idea what time it is?”

“Shut up, Jeremy,” she stated, brooking no argument. “Have you seen Abigail?”

She heard a shuffle of clothes as if Jeremy was sitting up in his bed and rubbing his eyes, “Wasn’t it your turn to watch her?”

“This isn’t a joke, you git,” she snapped, holding her phone against she shoulder as she pulled on a pair of jeans. “She ran out last night and she hasn’t come back.”

That seemed to sober Jeremy up immediately, “When? Like what time? Did you two have a row?”

“Around two or so, I think and no. She just ran off. Said she needed some air,” she replied, slipping on socks and tying her shoes. “We’ve got to go find her.”

She heard the clomp of boots on the ground over the line and the zip of a pair of jeans or a jacket, “I’ll be over there in like five minutes. I’ll meet you outside of your dorm.”

“Kay, bye,” she hung up the phone and tied a scarf around her neck, pulling on her jacket and heading for the door. She opened it, just before shutting it again and jerking back into the room to gather an extra scarf and her friend’s jacket- _just_ in case.

She shoved the extra clothes in her bag and locked their door, racing down the steps and out into the frigid morning air.

“Fuck,” she breathed as she took in the sight of the ground. A thin layer of ice, not quite snow, covered the entirety of what she could see.

_If she got stuck outside in this, we’re in trouble,_ she thought to herself as she heard the rapid crunch of ice from across the way. White smoke escaped Jeremy’s lips in puffs as he raced towards her, clad in jeans and a winter coat. He rested his hands against his knees and looked up at her friend, stammering with the chill, “It’s f-fucking _cold_!”

“I know, so we need to find her,” Evelyn said curtly, looking around the grounds near their dormitory.

“Have any idea where she could have gone?” Jeremy puffed out, straightening himself up and bouncing on his toes from the cold.

“Not a single one,” Evelyn admitted, dragging him forward and towards the center of campus, away from the dormitories. “Abigail!”

Jeremy caught the drift and dashed away from her, rounding a building and calling out their friend’s name with his deep bellow, “Abigail!”

Evelyn sprinted around the dormitories, calling out Abigail’s name, searching in every corner and finding nothing. She growled as she tried to figure out where the hell the girl could have gone before she heard Jeremy’s panicked voice coming from around the University Relations Office as she headed towards the outskirts of campus.

“Oh God! Evelyn! Evelyn, can you hear me?”

Her heart clenched in her throat and she raced to the sound of his voice.

“Jeremy!”

Said young man, was patting a very white looking girl’s face where she laid face-down on the ground, covered in a thin sprinkling of ice. Her lips were nearly purple with the chill and her entire body trembled slightly as Jeremy pulled her up into his arms. The girl made no effort to react to any of his ministrations, so Jeremy cursed, slipping his thick coat from around him and wrapping her in it.

The young man reached around her, gripping her torso in one arm and her legs in the other and stood, clutching the girl to his chest, “Evelyn! We need somewhere inside, _now_! Come on, think!”

Evelyn pinched her eyes shut as she tried to remember everywhere on campus open at the crack of dawn. Suddenly it came to her, “The coffeehouse! It opens at five, come on!”

Golden curls bounced frantically as she and Jeremy sprinted to the coffeehouse a few blocks from the Relations Office and Evelyn swung the door in dramatically, ushering Jeremy inside.

She turned to the shocked barista and hollered, “Call an ambulance! Caucasian girl, eighteen, severe hypothermia, unresponsive. Go on!”

The barista did just that and Evelyn turned back to Jeremy lying Abigail on the floor and stripping her of his jacket and her own clothes.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn protested, without actually making an effort to stop him.

Jeremy continued his ministrations as if she hadn’t spoken, “The ice is melting on her clothes; they’re wet. We need to get something dry on her. I’m assuming you brought something?”

Evelyn nodded fervently as she pulled out the scarf and jacket from her bag. Jeremy took it in a hurry and pointed to the wall, “Go sit over there. Open up your coat.”

Jeremy’s long fingers slipped Abigail from her wet shirt, exposing her pale underbelly, and he pulled her arms through his jacket (still warm from his own body) backwards, leaving her back exposed. With a grunt, he lifted her and placed her in Evelyn’s embrace, looking at his friend sternly.

“Don’t rub on her arms or her legs,” he said as he wrapped the scarf around Abigail’s neck and wrapped her coat over her legs. “Pull up your sleeves and rub your skin on hers; try and warm up her torso.” As Evelyn heeded his demands, Jeremy patted the girl’s face again, “Come on, love. Wake up for me. Say something.”

He kept his warm hands on her frozen cheeks until they began to flush, “Come on, Abigail. Wake up.”

To his delight her head turned on Evelyn’s shoulder towards the blonde girl’s face and her eyes began to flutter open. His emerald eyes sparkled as he rubbed at her neck and cheeks, conscious of Evelyn’s hands moving underneath his jacket, “That’s it, love! Come on, wake up! Let me see those pretty eyes.”

Abigail’s shivering became more violent as her body warmed in Evelyn’s grip and the blonde girl smiled, “That’s it, Abigail. You’re all right.”

Jeremy suddenly spun around and hollered at the employee, “I need something warm, not hot and not coffee. Do you have any milk or hot chocolate you could heat up for me?”

The young man nodded and set about pouring a cup of milk and sticking it the microwave; stirring it and spilling some on his wrist to check the temperature. He rounded the counter and brought it over, handing it to Jeremy with worried eyes.

“Ah, thanks uh,” Jeremy replied, looking down at his name tag, “Chad. What’s the ETA on the ambulance?”

Chad shrugged and looked out the door, “They said they’d be here any minute.”

“Okay, whatever,” Jeremy said flippantly, patting Abigail’s cheek again. “Abigail, are you awake? Can you understand me?”

She blinked her eyes at him and he smiled affectionately, “Alright, you’re doing great, sweetheart. Now I want you to drink this, okay? We’re gonna try and heat you up from the inside now. Can you do that for me?”

He pressed the Styrofoam cup to her lips and tipped it forward, letting the warm liquid touch her skin before her mouth instinctively opened and allowed it in.

“Brilliant,” he said with a smile, tipping it more as she sipped about a third of the cup before her head dipped back down. “Absolutely marvelous.”

The blue tinge in her lips slowly faded back to pale pink and her head lolled against Evelyn’s cheek. The young woman rubbed her friend’s forehead with her cheek and muttered, “Come on, Abigail. Stay conscious. You can do it.”

Suddenly, the coffeehouse door swung open with the jingling of bells and paramedics bustled in through the thin doorway. Jeremy slipped the two jackets off of her and unwrapped the scarf quickly, before the paramedics swarmed on Abigail’s limp form and set her on a stretcher with a thermal blanket on her while pulling her vitals and jerking her carefully out of the shop and into the siren-wailing vehicle outside.

Within the instant, the coffee shop was silent, leaving only the three young adults staring doe-eyed at each other until Jeremy began to laugh nervously.

“What’s so funny?” Evelyn bit out, as Jeremy’s chuckling grew louder.

He shook his head with a wide grin and held out his hands, “I- I have _no_ idea! Ha! Look at me; I’m shaking!”

Evelyn looked down and spotted the trembling in Jeremy’s hands and began to giggle, too. “You barmy git!”

“I know!” Jeremy chuckled wiping his watering emerald eyes with his hands. “I’ve never done that before.”

Evelyn wrapped her arms around him and felt his cold skin against her heated body, “You were brilliant. Barking mad, but brilliant. You probably saved her life.”

Jeremy’s laughter calmed and he hugged her back, “Think so?”

“Probably,” Evelyn stated, pulling away from him and wrapping his jacket around him and transferring her warmed scarf to his neck. “Let’s go check on her, yeah?”

Jeremy smiled and nodded, turning to the barista who stared at them both incredulously.

“That was… Amazing,” he managed, his light brown eyes creasing in a disbelieving smile.

“Yeah, tell your boss you deserve a raise,” Evelyn quipped, standing up and pulling her friend along with her.

Jeremy smiled and shook the young man’s hand, “Quite. It was nice to meet you, Chad.”

“Likewise,” the other young man agreed.

Evelyn rolled her eyes and dragged Jeremy towards the door with a smile on her face, “Yes, he thinks you’re cute, too. No, he’s not going to give you his number. Yes, he’ll probably come back in here to see you again. Cheers!”

 

 


	31. Angel's Trumpet

_Sherlock is actually a girl’s name._

_Look, the FREAK’S here._

_Why is everything always MY fault?_

_Sherlock! We’re not gonna tell him._

_If- if you love me, stay awake; can do you that?_

_Do you take this woman, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, to be your lawfully wedded wife?_

_He did, you know. Baker Street, behind closed curtains._

_Don’t get involved._

_Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now._

_Dad, you’re scaring me!_

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

_Now you let me grieve. Hm? How could you do that?_

_Remember Redbeard?_

_I wanted you… NOT to be dead._

_I don’t have FRIENDS!_

_Don’t be… dead._

_But look at how you care for John Watson._

_You- you MACHINE!_

_Did you miss me?_

_Stop this. Just- stop it._

_I will burn the heart out of you._

_Don’t give up; please, sweetheart. I- I need you to just focus and stay awake, okay?_

_SHERLOCK!_

Sherlock shot up like a bullet from the bed; his lungs burned with a thirst for oxygen and his trembling body drenched with sweat. A slick, chilled oily feeling settled in the bottom of his gut and his chest heaved with panic.

_Christ, oh my God._

He had, within the last few hours shortened by the scientific magic of REM sleep, relieved every moment of heartbreak and every moment of emotional anguish that he could remember in his most recent section of adult life and it made his stomach roil.

_The way that his hands dug the knife into his own heart as they conveyed the beautiful vibrato on Mary and John’s wedding waltz; the sickeningly hot feeling of his daughter’s blood seeping through his fingertips and sapping the very warmth from his body onto the floor._

He shook the thoughts from his mind and could hear himself wheeze on his every inhalation; the prickle of tears threatening to spill over onto his cheeks.

He ground his teeth and yanked himself from the bed, nearly misjudging the distance and catching himself on the bedside table. Hushed feet slipped on the familiar floor and before he knew it, Sherlock found himself sitting in John’s chair gripping at his chest; his palms pushing against the cardiac muscles trying their damnedest to escape his ribcage.

_It was just a dream, Sherlock. Not real. John’s in bed- your bed; safe and sound. Get your head together. Don’t panic._

His wheezing grew more panicked with every gasp until he could practically hear his lungs whining from within him. Suddenly, a dark voice grew inside his mind and filled his heart with dread.

_He doesn’t love you. You most certainly do not deserve him. He’s here out of necessity and familiarity. What are you really worth? You’re a sociopath- a MACHINE- don’t you remember? Everyone else does._

“No… I’m not,” heprotested weakly, pulling his knees to his chest and pinching his eyes tight.

_Oh, yes you are_ , the voice reminded him. _Your own daughter thinks it, too._

Sherlock shook his head as his daughter’s stony voice echoed in his mind _. “_ _Being a father requires affection and _feelings__. _Unless you weren’t aware, Sherlock Holmes is a textbook _sociopath__.”

“She didn’t mean that,” he whispered into the empty room.

The dark voice chuckled with animosity.

_Oh, didn’t she?_

 

***

 

John jerked awake as soon as he felt Sherlock’s arm rip away from his chest, scratching his tanned skin with fear, but aforementioned detective vacated the bed before he could do anything to help. He sat up groggily and listened to the whine of Sherlock’s lungs until he heard a whisper that nearly broke his heart, “ _No I’m not._ ”

“Oh, Sherlock,” he whispered into the air, slipping out from underneath the duvet and pulling on his house coat before padding over to the doorway into the sitting room.

“ _She didn’t mean that,”_ he heard mumbled into the air with an aborted sob. He peered through the doorway and caught a glimpse of his husband curled up like a frightened child in his red-plaid chair, trembling from the vicious attack of his own mind. He heard the choppy breathing of tears and whispered into the room, tapping the door frame.

“Sherlock?”

The detective made no gesture of having heard his husband, but suddenly stilled as if he were visiting his mind palace for a moment of solace. John stepped into the room and towards the unresponsive detective, brushing the dark fringe from his clammy face that was pressed against his bony knees and pressing light kiss to his damp locks.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he sighed quietly, running a hand over his husband’s hair. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

***

 

_“In the presence of our family and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, and in joy as well as in sorrow. I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, and to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.”_

Sherlock sighed as he listened to John recite the words in his memory palace again, running his hand through Sherlock’s curls.

“I meant it when I said that,” he reminded Sherlock with a soothing tone that lit up with golden light as it escaped his lips, “every word.”

“People are fickle creatures, John. They constantly reevaluate their desires,” he replied sullenly.

“Not me,” John shook his head, “not when it comes to you.”

Sherlock’s chest no longer felt pain, nor was his mind whirring at the speed of light while he reveled in the sensation of John’s touch; imaginary as it was.

“I’m about as brutally honest as they come, don’t you think?” John mumbled into Sherlock’s ear, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Don’t you think I would have told you if I were unhappy?”

Sherlock shook his head and frowned, “No, you’re too kind; too compassionate. You’d rather stay and remain miserable than risk ‘breaking my heart’. Sentiment runs your mind.”

“Be that as it may,” John sighed, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder from behind. “Go talk to me if you’re so worried.”

“I’m not worried-”

John lifted a brow pointedly at the detective, effectively ending that line of argument.

“It was just a nightmare, John,” Sherlock finally stated blandly, waving his hand flippantly towards the hearth, “just a recollection of painful memories set about to torture my mind whilst I’m not conscious enough to prevent it.”

“Don’t you think I’d want to know about it?” John asked quietly, splaying his hand over Sherlock’s chest and drawing words with his fingers as the detective kept his silence.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock eventually sighed, leaning his head back and staring into the lit fireplace in his mind palace’s rendition of their flat.

“Then let me remind you how real what we have is,” John suggested, hugging him close to his body. “Please?”

Sherlock nodded slowly and sighed, opening his eyes to the darkness that was 221 B Baker Street. He was looking down at his knees and as he began to stretch them back to the floor, he felt something papery curled up in his palm. He straightened himself out and heard the whisper of a blanket slide down from his curled form and pool at the foot of John’s chair in front of him. He shivered with the sudden loss of heat so he picked it back up, wrapping it around himself before flicking on the lamp on John’s side table. As he did so, he nearly knocked over a mug (he swore it hadn’t been there just a moment ago) and felt the residual heat lingering from a freshly made cup of tea. He furrowed his brow and squinted as the lamp flooded the room with yellowed light and he heard a soft inhalation from across the room.

John was lounging in Sherlock’s oversized chair, directly across from him, clad in his housecoat, his face resting on his fist and his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of unconsciousness. Navy eyes were closed and fluttered with the movement of REM sleep and Sherlock’s heart skipped a bit as he took in the sight.

Oh, how he _loved_ that man.

A soft snore escaped John’s lips and Sherlock couldn’t contain the smile of affection that painted his face. The paper crinkled in his hand again so he flattened it out on the arm of John’s chair and held it up to the soft light; squinting to read without his glasses.

_How hateful it is to age!_

John’s handwriting was the first thing he noticed before any of the script became legible enough to read to his sleep-deprived eyes.

_Sherlock,_

_I’m rubbish at this, so bear with me. I am a simple man and I am a creature of habit. In other words- I am nothing exceptional in my own right. I will not ever have monuments built for me, proclaiming my grand accomplishments, nor will I ever create anything more beautiful in this life than a mop-topped little ball of trouble that cries when authors kill off her favourite characters. Even so, you have chosen to spend your life with me, and for that I am eternally grateful. I love you, Sherlock. With whatever heart I have left within me, I LOVE you. You may sometimes find, in the darkness of the night when you have only your most sinister thoughts for company, that you feel an overwhelming sadness and darkness wrap itself around you. In those times I hope you remember that to me, you shine with the brilliance of a thousand suns and although I may not share in that radiance, I am far more than content to bask in the light you give off._

_You saved me in every way that a man can be saved and I will love you, Sherlock Holmes, until the day I die._

_Don’t ever forget that._

_Forever yours,_

_John_

Sherlock’s fingers traced over the familiar handwriting and if saline began to drip down his cheeks, he made no effort to control it.

John’s voice echoed in his mind, _Told you._

Sherlock sniffed a sweet smile and rubbed his face on the hem of his sleep shirt before pressing his lips to the folded piece of paper and standing to his feet. The blanket wrapped around him whispered against the ground as he moved, walking towards where his jacket hung from its glorified post. The detective smiled and tucked it into the breast pocket of the Belstaff, chuckling to himself at the sentimentality of it all.

John sighed in his sleep and the noise caught Sherlock’s attention, causing him to pad over to the sleeping man and brush his hand over the coarse gray and soft golden hair, slipping the blanket off of himself and draping it on his own chair behind the doctor. John sniffed, but refused to budge, so Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s that were pursed in sleep, causing the doctor’s eyes to flutter open, still hazy with slumber.

“Mmm, Sh’lock. Love you,” he mumbled sleepily against Sherlock’s skin.

Adoration grew in Sherlock’s chest and the fears that had plagued his heart immediately vanished, “I know. Let’s put you to bed.”

“M’kay,” John agreed half-heartedly, not actually making any motion to vacate Sherlock’s oversized chair.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled under his arms, “Come on, you. If you sleep like that, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

John allowed himself to be led back to their bedroom, slipped from his housecoat and flopped onto the mattress like a drunken teenager, fingering the fabric of their sheets in his fist. Sherlock flicked off the light in the sitting room and carried the cold cup of tea into their room, setting it on the nightstand before sliding underneath the duvet. John unconsciously searched for the warmth of another body and attached himself like a limpet to Sherlock’s hip as he sat up against the headboard.

“Love you, Sh’lock” he half-mumbled into the blankets, sending admiration and affection blooming into Sherlock’s chest, “promise.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, tracing nonsensical shapes on John’s back and smiling in the darkness. “Go back to sleep.”

John didn’t need telling twice, as he began to snore softly against Sherlock’s hip and the detective’s chest felt like it would burst at any moment.

He knew they’d never speak of what happened again; John wouldn’t hold it over Sherlock’s head as if he owed him something because that simply wasn’t the good doctor he knew. He knew he’d never actually be able to thank his husband for the kindness that he wrapped him in, so he whispered into the darkness, barely loud enough for himself to hear it.

“I may not say it, but I will show you every day how much I love you, John Watson.”

He was more than content to stay where he was till the sun rose; letting him study and admire the heartwarmingly brilliant being that he was lucky enough to call his own.

 

***

 

The sun did eventually rise and before long, John and Sherlock bustled into hospital room 826, greeted by D.I. Lestrade and a rather unhappy looking physician. Not even an hour prior, they had received a call from a rather frantic sounding teenager and they arrived as quickly as the incompetence of public transportation would allow.

“You can’t be in here-” the doctor started before the D.I. cut him off.

“They’re the closest to family she has on this continent, Doctor.” He nodded to the blonde girl on the chair next to the bed. “They’re that one’s parents.”

The doctor looked no less disgruntled, but allowed the two men to pass in. Golden curls bounced as the young woman looked up and jumped towards them, “Dad! Daddy!”

“Evelyn, we’re so glad you’re all right,” John said quietly into her golden locks as he embraced her. “What’s happened?”

She frowned as she hugged Sherlock and looked back to the girl motionless on the bed, “Last night she ran out saying something about needing air and she never came back so Jeremy and I went looking for her this morning.”

The brunette boy, shifted in his chair at the sound of his name and blinked awake as he saw the doctor and detective, “Hrmm, ‘ello.” He stood and winced as his sore muscles stretched. “Yeah, she was practically frozen solid. I don’t know what would have happened if we had found her any later.”

John lifted the chart from the foot of Abigail’s bed and nodded towards the young man, “From what I hear, Jeremy, you were rather heroic. You most definitely saved Abigail’s life, mate.”

Jeremy flushed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Really, um, I’m just glad she’s okay. What does her chart say? I can’t read them yet.”

John shrugged and set it back down on the bed, “Nothing you two don’t already know.”

Sherlock’s voice startled the doctor as he moved past him towards the side of Abigail’s bed, “How long has she been like this?”

“Since we found her,” Evelyn replied, her expression sullen.

Suddenly there was a light pop as Sherlock’s open palm smacked Abigail’s cheek. His voice was loud and stern as he commanded, “Open your eyes.”

“ _Dad!_ What are you _doing_?” Evelyn protested, jerking towards the man until he held a hand up to stop her.

Much to her surprise, nearly ebony eyes slowly opened and gazed straight into the ceiling.

“Watch me,” he said sternly to the girl as he waved a hand in her face, slowly, back and forth. A dead stare followed the motion, but Abigail made no motion of comprehension that any of them were there, nor of what directions she was obeying.

“We figured she was just in shock,” Jeremy piped up as Sherlock straightened himself and set about studying the hospital room.

“Rightly so,” he muttered, pulling a miniature torch from the supplies in the room and flashing it in her eyes; noting the delayed constriction of the almost invisible pupils. “But you are both mistaken.”

John’s brow furrowed, “What do you mean?”

Sherlock pointed at the young woman’s eyes, “Look.” He flashed the torch again. “She’s been drugged, John.”

Evelyn’s heart sank and she jumped over to the other side of the bed, leveling Sherlock with her gaze, “Dad, please tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

Sherlock merely lifted his gaze at her and she clapped her hands over her mouth.

Jeremy furrowed his brow and Tee’d his hands, “Time out- mortal brain here. What’s going on?”

Evelyn chewed her lip and turned around to meet his eyes, “Jeremy, what have we been waiting to happen for three days now?”

Realization dawned in the emerald orbs and she could see his jaw clench, “Christ. I’m gonna find this bastard and kill him myself.”

“Not if I don’t first,” Evelyn growled, looking back down at her friend with a pursed brow. “What do you think it is, Dad?”

He chewed his cheek as he stood up, “Hard to say. I can’t tell how he got it into her system, so the options are infinite.”

“Can you draw her blood?” Jeremy asked, grinding his teeth with ire.

“Rape kit’s already been handled,” the almost forgotten D.I. interjected, rubbing a hand over his silver hair. “No DNA and the blood hasn’t come back with any drugs yet.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me, Uncle Greg?” Evelyn snapped, spinning on the D.I. with fire in her eyes.

He raised his hands in defense and frowned, “Evelyn, you know we can’t discuss-”

“She’s my _friend_ , Uncle Greg!” She barked, her small stature intimidating every full-grown male in the room. “I’ll be _damned_ if I let something as _petty_ as protocol get in the way of me helping my friends! You should have told me!”

“Evelyn,” Jeremy tried, resting a hand on her shoulder before she jerked it off, still glaring at the D.I.

The silver-haired man shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, “Tell you wouldn’t have changed what happened.”

“Uncle Greg,” she fumed, “that is not the _point_!”

“Enough!” John commanded sternly, standing between his friend and his daughter. Dark navy eyes cut through the tension as he leveled his stare at both parties, earning him two silent mouths of obedience. He had learned in the military that with the right amount of stubbornness and severity, even _he_ could be the tallest man in the room.

“Alright, that’s settled,” John growled, shifting on his hip and turning back to the detective. “Now look, Sherlock. I _know_ it was that bloke at the club. I don’t know how or why, but it _has_ to be him.”

Sherlock’s fingers steepled under his chin as he debated internally, suddenly turning to face Evelyn, “Why was she outside?”

Evelyn’s let out a long and hot breath as she recollected herself, “Like I said, she ran out last night-”

“Evelyn- relevant information only. _Why?_ ” Sherlock pressed with narrowed eyes.

“Hell, Dad, I dunno!” Evelyn bit back, before the disturbing pictures came back to the forefront of her mind. “Hold up.” She turned to Jeremy and held out her hand expectantly, “You have your laptop I assume?”

The tall boy bent down and handed her his bag that he had retrieved between sending Abigail away in a bus and arriving there himself. “What’s this all about then?”

Evelyn studiously ignored him as she flipped open the lid and plugged in the USB on her keys. As she opened up the file explorer, she showed the pictures to her father, “She ran out right after looking at these. Said she needed air, but I don’t understand. They’re just pictures of her sister.” She shook her head, “You don’t think this is related, do you?”

Sherlock pursed his lips as he scrolled through the photographs, “I don’t. I’m afraid our Miss Abigail was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wouldn’t make sense to send her pictures of her sister; it doesn’t fit. He wouldn’t have the resources anyhow. Not from what I can tell at least.”

“Alright, then what are they?” John pressed, gesturing to the photos.

Sherlock shook his head, ebony curls dancing on his pale brow, “Not sure. I need to do some research. Evelyn, did you happen to see from whom they were sent?”

Evelyn shook her head shyly, “Didn’t even think about it, honestly. I was a bit shocked to see them at all.”

Sherlock slipped his phone from his coat pocket and tapped along the screen, “Fine.” He then studied the girl in the bed for a moment before turning to John. “John, stay here with her. I need to finish some work.”

“Where do you think you’re-” John protested with a cocked brow, but Sherlock gracefully escaped the room and was down the hall before his question was punctuated, “-going?”

John groaned and raked his hand through his hair irately, “Sodding-! You know what? _Fine.”_ He spun around on his heel and slumped into the chair with a _humph_. Sherlock told him to stay, so he knew that inevitably, he would sit right there and wait until he was beckoned again.

The room was practically silent, save the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the hum of the hospital’s electricity and every eye stared at the motionless girl in the bed. Her eyes had fallen back closed and her lips opened slightly with each inhalation, reminding them of her beating heart.

“Are you gonna stay with her till she wakes up?” Evelyn then asked quietly, feeling the adrenaline fade from her system and wash into melancholy.

“Most likely,” he said honestly. John took one look at her and gestured for her to sit in front of him, “Come ‘ere, love.”

She indeed sat at his feet and leaned her back against his shins, her head lolling onto his knee. John ran a hand through her long golden curls and sighed, “Look, it’s gonna be all right. You know your Dad when he gets his mind set on something. We’ll figure it all out, darling. I’m just really glad _you’re_ okay.” He chuckled quietly as Evelyn shifted against his legs, “Nearly gave your father a heart attack when he picked up the phone this morning.”

Evelyn hummed as she felt John braid her hair loosely out of habit more than conscious thought, “Sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

He hummed before furrowing his brow, “Has anyone called her parents?”

Jeremy cleared his throat and sat across from Evelyn with his hands in his lap, “I called her mum on Abigail’s mobile, but I didn’t get an answer. I didn’t- you know- leave a message or anything I mean- I- I wouldn’t want that.”

“Neither would I,” John reassured him, twisting the golden curls in his fingers. He could only imagine hearing something that terrible in a phone message and then having the said message- something he knew he’d never be able to delete stuck on his machine and felt ill.

The D.I. cleared his throat and clicked his heel against the linoleum, “John, will you let me know when she wakes up? I need to take her statement, but there’s no use in me hangin’ round till she comes back online.”

John nodded and waved him off, “Yeah, sure. Make sure to bring me a coffee when you get back.”

With that, the officer retreated and silence rang out in the room again until Evelyn’s mind grew more and more agitated. After long moments of glaring daggers at the floor, it finally got the better of her and she jerked herself up from in front of her father and out into the hall; Jeremy shooting her father a look ( _I’ve got it)_ and following soon after.

“The hell are you going?” He called, grabbing her arm to catch her. “You are _not_ going after this guy on your own.”

She spun around and pinned him with navy eyes alight with the fire of hatred, “I’d like to see you stop me.”

At one time, Jeremy might have been intimidated by the dark stare, but now he just saw it for what it was- a defense mechanism. He shrugged and shook his head, “You know as well I do that I can’t do anything but follow you once your mind is made up. But let’s be logical about this, hm? You find him, then what? You think he’s just gonna hold out his wrists and be like, ‘Oh yeah, you caught me! Cheers!’ That’s not gonna happen, Evelyn.”

“Don’t _patronize_ me,” she spat, jerking her arm away from her friend and turning back down the corridor.

“I’m not patronizing you,” he pleaded, grabbing her arm again and pulling her into a hug he knew she couldn’t break out of. “I’m just trying to keep you _safe.”_

“I don’t need you to keep me safe!” She spat struggling away from his grip until she gave up with a defeated sigh.

“No you don’t,” Jeremy agreed, splaying a hand on her back and resting his cheek on her crown, “but you do a rather shoddy job of it yourself.”

She chuckled slightly in spite of herself and reluctantly wrapped her arms around the young man’s chest inhaling his herbal-scented cologne. “This is my fault.”

“It’s not,” Jeremy said softly, shaking his head against hers. “She was safe while you were around, you couldn’t have helped her when she went out on her own.”

“That doesn’t mean she deserved it!” She snapped, looking up at him.

“Did I say that?” Jeremy chided, cocking a brow at her while he looked down from his height. “Don’t take this out on me.”

“This isn’t about you!” She hissed, pulling away until her friend’s arms gripped her tightly enough that she had to either cease her struggling or suffocate. She chose the former and fumed in his embrace.

“Are you done?” Jeremy asked after a long while of silence, feeling the fight drain out of the body in his arms and resting his chin on the top of her braid, noticing how it was coming undone with the lack of a fastener.

Evelyn thought about barking back at him, but decided against it and simply nodded against his chest.

Jeremy half-smiled and released her, shivering slightly with the sudden lack of additional external body heat. The young woman before him stood with heavy shoulders and flushed cheeks and he wished for all the world that he could alleviate her burdens from her, but settled for pressing a kiss to her heated forehead.

“Good,” he said, leading her by her elbow back into the hospital room. “We need to talk strategy.”

 

***

 

The plan was simple. Find something that made this guy tick and exploit it. Evelyn had never been surer of something in her entire life as she pulled on her club attire and stepped out into the cool London air. She was going to make this man _pay._ Turns out, the exam she and her roommate had been scheduled to take had been postponed due to some _horrific_ accident suffered by the professor and Evelyn nearly laughed at the thought.

_Serves him right_ , she thought sinisterly as she met the shivering young man outside of her dormitory and took his arm.

“So have any ideas?” Jeremy asked quietly as they traversed the familiar walkway to the club they decided to target that night.

“Not really,” Evelyn admitted, tightening her grip on him. “I’m sick to my stomach with worry. I just want her to wake up and tell me everything.”

“What if she can’t remember?” The young man suggested as they neared their destination.

Evelyn shook her head, “She will. I know she will. None of the other girls forgot anything; they just refused to tell me anymore than I had already guessed. He’s doing something to them- scaring them into silence- and I want to know what it is.”

Jeremy flashed his ID at the door and waited for Evelyn to do the same before entering the thrumming entrance, “I dunno, Evelyn. What do you think you’re gonna find with another night of staking out?”

Evelyn’s navy eyes suddenly grew dark with ire, “Oh, I’m not staking out tonight.”

Before he knew it, his friend was on the edge of the club, knocking their bald suspect’s head against his table and growling in his ear.

“Where were you last night?” She hissed, pinching his ear against itself.

The man’s lips quivered and an unexpected higher-toned voice trembled out, “I don’t- _what_?”

“Evelyn! What are you-?”

“Where _were_ you last night?” She hissed again, digging her fingers into his pale skin.

He pinched his eyes closed and shook his head to the best of his abilities, “I dunno what you’re talking about! What’dya want?”

“I want you to _answer_ the bloody question!”

“Evelyn, please-”

“I was here!” He cried out; his flushed cheek steaming the sticky table. “All night! Me girl’s on!”

“Your girl?” Evelyn questioned, lifting her hand and allowing the man to regain his posture.

He nodded fervently, pointing at a scantily clad girl dancing in a luminescent cage near the stage of the club, “Pixie! She’s me girl! I come and watch her every night she’s on! I just watch- promise!”

Evelyn’s cheeks flushed as she shot a face of embarrassment at her friend. There was no way this man was their culprit. He had nothing of the required traits to pull off such a heist without evidence or witnesses: the personality, the confidence, the perceived drive- none of it. She backed away and tipped her head, “Oh. I- um. I’m sorry, sir. Please enjoy your- um- evening.”

As soon as they were out of earshot from their bald victim, Jeremy jerked her arm and forced her to meet his eye, “And _what_ was _that_?”

Evelyn shrugged, “I saw an opportunity to interrogate him and I took it.”

He scowled and gestured back out into the crowd, “You just attacked a man you knew nothing about! What were you _thinking_?”

“I’m _thinking_ that I’m finding out information!” She spat venomously.

“You’re being an idiot!” Jeremy countered, narrowing emerald eyes at her. “Come on Miss Anti-Sentimentality, you’re letting your emotions get the best of you!”

“Am not!”

“What was his tie’s color?” Jeremy prodded with a cocked brow. “Hm?”

Evelyn jerked her head back in shock of the unanticipated question, “Wait- what?”

“His tie,” Jeremy stated, competing with the house music for Evelyn’s ear. “What color was his tie? If that was just acting, you should know the color, its brand, and who gave it to him. Do you?”

Evelyn stammered as she tried to track through the last five minutes, finding nothing that might help her avoid her friend’s irritation, “I- well-”

“You don’t. I’ll give you a hint,” he scoffed. “He wasn’t wearing one.”

“I knew that,” Evelyn sniffed indignantly, although she could certainly see Jeremy’s point as if it were emblazoned with neon lights.

“No you didn’t,” Jeremy argued, shoving his hand in his pocket. “Now are you done being a thug so can we go back to pinning the bastard who hurt our friend? Hm?”

Evelyn flushed at his insistence, but bowed her head and took a deep breath, inhaling the sickly sour aroma of sweat and cheap alcohol thick in the air. She steadied her mind before looking back at her companion, fire alight in her eyes.

“You’re right. I’m ready.”

Jeremy’s shoulders suddenly relaxed and his hard features softened into his normal demeanor as he looked back out into the crowd of men and women.

“Fine. Where do we start?”

 

***

 

John’s finger traced the touch pad on Jeremy’s computer as he kept the motionless girl beside him company. He expanded the picture with another click and furrowed his brow in thought.

_This doesn’t make sense_ , he thought as he studied the grainy image on the screen. _These aren’t even at the angle or height of security cameras, how did they even get them?_

He then opened up one more, that last one he hadn’t examined yet and his breath caught. The familiar face that had been captured on every shot was contented as she lay on the front lawn of her (he assumed) house; it was surprising how much _space_ there was, as he couldn’t see another house in the background for a long stretch of ground. The problem was, however, that outside in a rural area nonetheless, someone had taken a photograph of the young blonde girl without any suspicion.

_How the hell are they doing this? And WHY?_

The girl next to him began to stir and he slid the computer carefully from his lap and onto the chair as he stood and padded over quietly to her. She crinkled her nose and pursed her lips as if there was a bad taste lingering in her throat and slowly opened her eyes, groaning as she did so.

Suddenly, her eyes blew wide open and began to dart around the room in a panic; her heart monitor skyrocketing.

John placed a warm calloused palm on her forehead, brushing back her brunette hair as he mollified her, “Abigail, darling do you remember me? John Watson, Evelyn’s father. Relax love, you’re all right.”

As soon as contact was made and Abigail’s eyes landed on the doctor, her face crumpled and she leaned up and into him with a sob.

John’s well practiced paternal instincts took control and he caught her gently against his chest; smoothing her tangled locks under his palm as his shoulder began to darken with tears, “Come here. I’ve got you, love. You’re all right.”

She bared her teeth as she wept into his chest and he could feel her entire body tremble as her cracked voice escaped her, “I want… I want my mom.”

The statement broke John’s heart and he wrapped his arms around the girl in a comforting embrace, “Oh love, I’m sorry.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her brow and caressed her shoulder blades, “I know you’re frightened, but you’ll be okay.”

Suddenly, she jerked away from him and shook her head, “I can’t- I don’t…” Much to John’s astonishment, she began to pull at her IVs franticly, “I can’t pay for this!”

“Wait- what?” John stammered, stilling her wrists with his strong hands, “Nope, nope- stop it. Relax!”

“I can’t afford this!” She blurted out tugging at her wrists but finding herself too weak to pull away.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing her back down against the mattress gently. “We’ll work it out; just calm down, alright? Can you do that for me?”

She hiccupped and wiped her face on her shoulder as best she could; her breath still hitching with emotion and her face still pinched in pain.

He soothed her hair back and smiled, creasing his warm, navy eyes, “That’s it. Just relax. Now, unfortunately, you’re just stuck with me. Rather unlucky for you, I’m afraid. I’m not much company.” He smiled and gripped her hand in his, “Can I look you over?”

Her lower lip quivered, but she nodded and took a deep breath to ready herself. John then took to checking her vitals and flashing lights in her eyes as he determined her fitness.

“You’re not concussed,” he said pleasantly as he flicked the miniature torch off. “And you’re barely bruised.” He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, his face still soft, “Abigail, you weren’t manhandled. Can you tell me what happened?”

She pinched her eyes tight and shook her head fervently, biting her lip until it practically bled.

John’s brows parenthesized his eyes and he pulled the chair to her bed, setting the laptop in his lap as he settled down, “Abigail, are you not ready to talk about this yet? I completely understand, but I _do_ need to know _something_ about the person who did this to you.”

Abigail pinched her eyes tight until she finally released her lip from the prison of her teeth. When she spoke, her voice shook and John had to lean in to hear her correctly, “Mr. Watson, I- he…” She took another shaky breath and shook her head, “I didn’t say ‘no’.”

“What do you mean?” John pressed, since he now had her talking.

“I didn’t say ‘ _no_ ’,” she repeated, her cheeks flushing. “I- I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything.”

John felt his chest tighten and he gripped her hand in his again, “Abigail, why couldn’t you do anything?”

The apples of her cheeks pinched tight as tears began to build up in her dark lashes, “I- I don’t know! Look, I- I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

John sighed as he rubbed her hand with his thumb, “Abigail, I know it’s traumatic, but as unfortunate as it is, you are our best hope of finding this man. I need to know what he did to you. How did he incapacitate you without hurting you?”

She shook her head and repeated, “I don’t _know_!” True to her word, the more upset she got, the thicker her Southern drawl became, “I turned around and he was there and he grabbed my hand and told me to walk and I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t pull away and I was terrified and-” She jerked forward and covered her mouth with her hands, signaling John to pick up the bin at the side of her bed. She hacked everything in her stomach up and spat before leaning back down and covering her face with her shaking palms.

“It’s all right,” John soothed, running a hand over her straight hair. “You don’t have to tell me any more. Can you tell me what he looked like?”

She ground her teeth as she sucked in a shaky breath, “It’s not- it wasn’t the man we thought it was. He was- harder. Dark hair and dark eyes; he was tall, and heavy. His hands- I just-” Her heart monitor spiked and she began to sob again, wheezing in what breath she could pull.

“Okay, okay,” he hummed, cupping her cheek. “We’ll try again later, alright?”

She nodded weakly through her weeping and curled her knees up off of the bed, “I want to go home.”

“I know, love,” John said softly, running a thumb over her cheek bone. “Just be brave a little longer until we get you patched up, alright?”

With a quivering lip, she nodded and closed her eyes, trying for all the world to fall back asleep so that she could wake up and find out that all of this was just a bad dream.

John sat back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks as he slipped out his phone and tapped a message out.

 

To: Sherlock

_Where are you? –JW_

_21:34_

As he awaited a reply, he opened up the laptop and peered at the last picture again.

_I still don’t understand. Why didn’t she fight? She’s certainly strong enough to hold her own, and she most certainly would have gotten a FEW punches in, so why didn’t she even try?_

His stomach unsettled as he studied the photograph again and noticed something he hadn’t before, just before his phone pinged.

 

From: Sherlock

_Morgue, Bart’s. Waiting on drug analysis to finish. –SH_

_21:39_

 

_It couldn’t be,_ John thought as he enlarged the bottom of the picture and examined the dark cut-off half-circle at the edge of the frame.

His stomach dropped. _Oh. It most definitely is. But why?_

He shut the laptop and searched for a pen and paper as his heart rate began to accelerate. After finally procuring one, he dashed a short note on it before tearing out of the door.

 

_Abigail-_

_Just stepped out. I’ll be back soon. Stay safe._

_-John Watson_

To: Sherlock

_Abigail woke up. Have some information. And I found something in the pictures Evelyn brought. I think I know why she panicked. Be there in a mo. –JW_

 

***

 

“Sherlock!”

John nearly fell into the door at the morgue as he lifted the lid on the laptop and set it in front of him. Sherlock jerked up from the microscope and furrowed his brow, slipping his glasses farther up his nose to help his aging eyes focus, “John? What’s the-?”

“This,” John announced, pointing at the dark half-circle at the bottom of the frame.

Sherlock cocked a brow in question and John pressed further, “Sherlock, _look_ at it! _Really_ look at it.”

The detective pursed his lips as the doctor frowned, “I thought it was maybe just a trick of the camera at first but look at all of these.” He began to flip through the photographs on the screen, noting the dashes on the edges. “They’re tick-marks. Now look at this again.”

He enlarged the photograph with the dark half-circle and gestured at it pointedly until Sherlock’s eyes widened with understanding, “John, you’re brilliant.”

“But why would they have a sniper on Abigail’s sister?” John pressed, narrowing his eyes on the dark barrel of the gun. “Who would be blackmailing her?”

“It’s not blackmail,” Sherlock corrected, “it’s a threat. I spoke to Mycroft earlier-”

“You went and saw Mycroft?” John interrupted incredulously.

Sherlock shrugged, “He has his uses. Anyways, he is having his men look into it. See if she has a past we need to know about.”

“Alright,” John said uneasily, steeling himself for the analysis. “What did the drug test come up with?”

Sherlock scowled, “Nothing conclusive, yet. It’s taking a lifetime and a half to finish analyzing. Tedious.”

“What did you even test?” John then asked, trying to remember when Sherlock had been allowed to draw her blood.

“I nicked some of her hair earlier,” Sherlock admitted with a nonchalant shrug. “She won’t miss it.”

John rolled his eyes as he began to pace behind the detective sitting at the microscope. Sherlock suddenly spun around and sighed dramatically, “Did you join me down here to drive me insane?”

“Is it working?” John teased, earning him a glare from the detective. Suddenly, Molly cleared her throat as she entered the room.

“Whose hair did you test, Sherlock?”

Said detective jumped from his seat and ripped the analysis from her grasp, ignoring her question as his cat eyes darted all over it, reading through its contents. Suddenly, his pale face blanched and his eyes widened.

“ _Scopolamine hydrobromide_ ,” he murmured under his breath.

“Sorry?” John prodded, pulling the paper from his husband’s grasp.

“John, where is Evelyn?” The detective asked grimly, his face white as a ghost.

John furrowed his brow, unfamiliar with the compound and shook his head, “Not sure. Hey! Sherlock, where are you going?” He hollered as he watched the detective sprint from the morgue, his Belstaff billowing behind him.

Sherlock only needed to hear John’s footsteps to know he had caught up, “Devil’s Breath, Jimson Weed, Scopolamine- John, how have you not heard of this?”

“I dunno, but I have a feeling I’m about to find out,” John protested, chasing Sherlock up the single set of stairs to the ground level, “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock slammed out of the door and onto the dark street, pulling out his mobile and dialing his daughter.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock held up a hand to his husband as he listened to the rings- one… two… three…

_“Dad?”_

His chest unclenched and he lifted his head to look around, “Evelyn, where are you?”

The voice came over the line strong and bright, surrounded by wind and a chiming church bell, _“Erm, near Saint Matthew’s, I think. Why? And why are you calling me? Is something wrong with Abigail?”_

Sherlock let out a hot breath and shook his head, “Evelyn, listen to me carefully. I need you to get inside somewhere safe.”

There was a slight pause just before her reply, “ _Right this second?”_

“Yes, right this second!” Sherlock snapped, grabbing John’s elbow and dragging him down the street at a sprint towards the named cathedral.

He heard Evelyn hum as she looked around for anything she could use, _“Nothing’s open. What’s going on?”_

“Just do as I say and stop arguing!” Sherlock barked, pulling John along like a dog on a leash as he turned a corner.

_“Dad, we can’t go anywhere. Everything’s closed! Do you want us to run home?”_

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “Who’s with you?”

“ _Dad, what’s going on? You’re kind of freaking me out.”_

Sherlock practically growled into the mobile, “Evelyn, _who_ is with you?”

However, instead of an answer, Sherlock jerked the phone from his ear as he heard the sickening _thunk_ of something blunt against bone and a young man holler an explicative in response; then his daughter screaming her companion’s name.

“ _Jeremy!”_

“Evelyn!” Sherlock hollered, his feet picking up more momentum. “Evelyn, can you hear me? Hold your breath!”

He cursed as he heard his daughter coughing and hacking before an eerie silence took over the line.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, nearly sending John over him with the momentum and stared into the air before him. “Evelyn?” He waited another moment with no reply besides the cracking of glass from what he could assume was Evelyn dropping her mobile onto the concrete. “ _Evelyn!”_

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?” John demanded, his cheeks flushed with the cold and his navy eyes dark with frustrated concern.

Sherlock’s grave face nearly broke his heart as the detective resumed his running towards St. Matt’s, “He has her, John! He has Evelyn!”

“ _What?_ ” John’s leather soles tore into the concrete as he chased the detective towards the cathedral. “What is- how do you know?”

“Besides the fact I just _heard_ it,” Sherlock growled, nearly knocking over a pedestrian as he rounded a corner, “Abigail’s hair was positive for _Scopolamine Hydrobromide_. _That’s_ how he’s getting the girls. It’s _brilliant_ and absolutely _terrifying_.”

John’s heart hammered against his ribcage as he began to hear the bells tolling in the early winter air, “What is it though?”

“It’s an anticholinergic- it comes from the Brugmansia plant,” Sherlock explained, finding it harder and harder to breath with every step.

“Christ,” John breathed, his eyes widening in fear.

“Only a cruel God would have anything to do with it,” Sherlock muttered as he spotted the front of Saint Matthew’s and before he could take another step, he noticed the dark crimson of blood splashed on the wet concrete. The brick building to his right stood silent and gave him no clues as to what had happened only moments before and it infuriated him. Suddenly, his husband sprinted past him and when Sherlock spun around, he could see why.

The young man that had earned his daughter’s trust and affections lay face down on the concrete, sappy crimson dripping from his brunette hair, in the covered walkway next to the small cathedral, entirely unconscious and for a moment Sherlock was concerned he wasn’t breathing at all.

“Jeremy,” John pressed, patting his face and checking for any major damage that would persuade him not to move him. Besides the wound on the back of his head from whatever had bludgeoned him, he seemed in a relatively safe zone. John rolled the boy onto his back and knelt at his side. Head wounds are always known for their profuse bleeding and John’s hands were practically painted crimson as he searched through Jeremy’s straight hair and patted his cheek again, “Jeremy. Wake up, son. Come on.”

A thin rivulet of Jeremy’s life force dripped from where his brow had made contact with the asphalt down his cheek and wet John’s palm as the doctor continued his ministrations on the young man.

John barely noticed Jeremy’s hand twitch in response until the he pinched his face and fluttered open his eyes as he came back online.

“That’s a good man,” John said encouragingly, rubbing his knuckles on the boy’s chest. “Come on. Wake up, Jeremy.”

Hazy emerald eyes creased as they lifted and Jeremy’s jaw clenched from the pain in his head, “Watson- Eve-Evelyn’s- she’s-”

“I know, Jeremy,” John interrupted, noticing how the boy’s eyes remained unfocused, although he seemed not to be concussed. He slid out his phone as he continued to speak to him, dialing the D.I., “Evelyn’s in trouble; where is she? Where did they go?”

Jeremy hummed in discomfort and pinched his brow as if he were thinking about something very complex and difficult until he puffed out his cheeks weakly a few times. “He blew- I dunno. Christ- my head.”

_“John?”_

“Greg!” John practically shouted into the mobile, causing the young man to flinch away, “Greg, I need you to send a bus down to Saint Matthew’s. Jeremy’s been knocked in the head and he’s bleeding pretty badly; he’ll need stitches.”

His navy eyes bounced to the concrete where he wrapped his spare hand around a shattered mobile phone. He pressed the home button and a picture of a water-colored TARDIS surrounded by delicately painted words greeted him.

_Most definitely Evelyn’s,_ he thought, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

Greg’s voice startled him, _“Christ- what’s happened?”_

John scowled as he searched the area with narrowed eyes, “The rape suspect we’ve been working on- he’s taken Evelyn.”

John heard the rapid shuffling of papers and the sound of heavy steps on the linoleum walkway at the Yard, _“I’ll be there as soon as I can! Stay there!”_

John slid the phone off and palmed it into his back pocket before turning back to the young man on the ground.

“Jeremy, focus,” John said sternly, cupping the boy’s face in both hands and forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Which direction did they go in? Was he driving something?”

Jeremy’s flushed face crumpled as his breath shook, “She just… walked away with him!”

“Alright, Jeremy- _where_?”

“John, I have several ideas- one of which I think is correct.”

John hadn’t even noticed that the detective had disappeared until a dark coat reappeared next to him again.

Sherlock was out of breath as he pointed to something in the darkness, “John, there’s… There’s mud on ground.” He swallowed exaggeratedly with a dry throat, lifting a finger coated in something dark grey and rather unsavory. “This doesn’t belong here.”

“Does that mean something to you?” John asked before earning a severe _John-do-keep-up_ look.

“Of course it does, John! Look at it!” Sherlock straightened himself as his panting was still present but began to fade. “There’s only… one area within a reasonable distance that has this kind of algae. It’s near an area where the Thames… lets out near an old paper mill. That must where he takes them!”

Jeremy began to nod off in John’s arms so he patted the young man’s cheek, “Jeremy, can you remember that? Paper mill on the Thames. Repeat that.”

“Paper… Thames,” Jeremy attempted, his eyelids rebelling against him. “Paper mill… Thames.”

“That’ll have to do,” John sighed, slipping his phone out again to text the D.I. just in case. “Jeremy, tell Lestrade that when he gets here, alright? Can you stay awake that long?”

Jeremy nodded slowly and motioned to pull his long body from the ground. With John’s assistance, he sat up against the brick wall of the church and wiped at his face, startling when his hand came back red. Before John could say anything Jeremy waved him off, “Head wounds- they bleed. I- I know that.”

John smiled warily as he stood up and looked over to his husband. The detective grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the street, where he hailed a cab; his mind reeling with every possible torture method capable of leaving no traces on this criminal’s corpse.

 

***

 

“We’ll find him; don’t you worry,” Jeremy reassured her as she held his arm on their walk back to campus.

Evelyn’s face flushed with the frustration of her _additional_ failure that evening, “I’m beginning to think we won’t. I keep mucking this whole thing up.”

Jeremy nudged her with his arm, “That’s not the Evelyn, _I_ know.”

“Yes, well the Evelyn _you_ know is feeling rather incompetent at the moment,” Evelyn growled as she huddled closer to her friend in the evening’s chill.

Jeremy thinned his lips as they continued to walk down the avenue, then he smiled, “You know, I’ve always loved this time of year.” He puffed out white smoke in the cooled air and smiled, “Just before it gets too cold to be outside and you finally get to pull out your favorite coat and show it off to everyone.”

Evelyn smirked, “You sound like my Dad. That bloody coat of his. Sometimes I think he’s more fond of it than me!”

Jeremy smiled and then the church bells of Saint Matthew’s began to toll as they approached it. He hummed and lifted his face to the starless sky, “Isn’t that the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard?”

The ancient bells rang out in the distance and Evelyn had to agree with her friend, “One of.”

Jeremy smiled as they continued to amble along when Evelyn’s mobile began to ring.

She frowned as she read the caller ID and answered it, “Dad?”

Her father’s tone was curt and stressed, “ _Evelyn, where are you?”_

Nerves began to settle in her stomach as she unlatched her arm from Jeremy and pressed against her other ear so that she could hear him better, “Erm, near Saint Matthew’s, I think. Why? And why are you calling me? Is something wrong with Abigail?”

She could hear her father exhale heavily into the phone, “ _Evelyn, listen to me carefully.”_ She stopped walking- as there had _never_ been good news after that sentence. “ _I need you to get inside somewhere safe.”_

She shot her concerned friend a glance before sending a quick scan behind them, “Right this second?”

Her father’s answer was practically immediate and definitely set her teeth on edge with the tension in his voice, “ _Yes, right this second!”_

She hummed to herself as she took in the sight of unlit signs and closed buildings everywhere around her friend and she, “Nothing’s open. What’s going on?”

“ _Just do as I say and stop arguing!”_ Her father barked back at her. She could feel the blood drain from her face. Her father was well known for his brashness and rude demeanor, but he never acted that way towards _her_ unless something was terribly wrong.

“Dad, we can’t go anywhere. Everything’s closed! Do you want us to run home?” She pulled on Jeremy’s elbow and began to accelerate her walking speed closer to the sanctuary of the church.

“ _Who’s with you_?”

“Dad, what’s going on?” She begged, her grip tightening on her friend’s arm as they approached the ancient brick building on their left. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

She could hear the exasperation in her father’s tone, “ _Evelyn,_ who _is with you?”_

She opened her mouth to answer before she felt a body collide with hers and nearly knock her to the ground.

“Fuck!”

She spun around to see a stranger raising his hand to Jeremy, a brick clenched in fat fingers. Before she could even blink, she heard Jeremy’s yelp and saw crimson pull away from his head on the brick as his eyes fluttered closed and his tall frame slumped to the ground.

“Jeremy!” She screamed, turning to the offender with her fists ready to defend herself. The man smiled wryly and Evelyn practically forgot about the mobile clenched in her fist.

Suddenly, the dark-haired man with the hard eyes raised the hand not carrying the brick and opened it to expose a white powder on his palm.

_What the-?_

She furrowed her brows in confusion just as he blew the white ash-looking compound directly into her face causing her to splutter and cough it away, waving her hands as she felt herself inhale the mystery dust.

Her brain went completely _white_. She blinked and blinked again feeling the mobile drop from her grasp and smash against the unforgiving concrete.

She bent down to retrieve it, but found with a sick stomach that her body refused to obey her commands.

_What’s- what’s wrong with me?_

She went to open her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her jaw didn’t even _twitch_.

The man smiled and wiped his hand on his jeans, depositing the rest of the residue there. His sausage-like fingers wrapped around her wrist, clammy and sickening, and began to tug.

_Yeah- don’t think so, mate._

She ripped her arm back to her however, her arm didn’t _move_. Not a single muscle. As the man tugged, her feet began to follow in his footsteps and found herself retreating from her unconscious friend bleeding into the pavement.

_Jeremy!_ Her mind screamed. _What was that?! What is going on?! Stop it! Evelyn Mary Watson, you sit your arse right down and stay!_

She leaned back against her heels with all of her might, deciding that perhaps the deadweight plan might work, but her body refused to cooperate and continued to maneuver forward into the nether of London.

_Think, Evelyn! THINK! What the hell was that white shite?!_

The young detective could feel her heart rate begin to skyrocket in her chest, but she could make no effort to calm it.

Her mind screamed in revolt, yet her body stayed silent and the man turned around and stared at her with hungry eyes and smiled.

“You must really like me, huh? You’ve been watching me for _days_.”

_No I haven’t,_ her mind supplied silently. _I’ve never seen you before in my-_ _wait._ If her expressions were under her control, she would have widened her eyes in realization. _You! You WERE in the club all those nights! I never even noticed you! Jeremy was right- I HAVE been slipping!_

Her mind relayed the images of this man directly behind their main suspect in the club, catching her eye and then shying away and switching to the dolled up American to her side. His dark hair was trimmed short and his stature was that of a laborer, perhaps construction.

_How could I have possibly missed you? Stop! Leave me alone, you buggering-!_

Her face remained deadpanned and her mind rioted.

_WHY CAN’T I MOVE?_

The man brought her to a vehicle, black and non-descript ( _of course_ ) and opened the door for her, pushing her body inside. Without her permission, her knees bent and she sat on the back seat, allowing him to shut her in and seal her fate.

If she had the ability to shed tears in her current state, she just might have.

_Sodding emotions._

The man smiled as he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side, slipping in quietly and smirking at her through the rearview mirror. He raised the hand he had wiped on his jeans, “You ever seen this? Called Devil’s Breath. Got it off a mate of mine down in Birmingham. Wicked, yeah?” He smiled as he turned his eyes forward and pulled the car from where it was parked, “You’re not really my… _type_ , you know. But your fire- oh, that was just like her.”

_Her?_

He shook his head as if remembering a fond memory and smiled, “She’d be right jealous of you, I’d wager. You, with your pretty, young skin and your pretty little smile. She’s always been a little jealous of my girls. Dunno why, though. I never would’a strayed if she’d just stayed.” Suddenly his demeanor grew cold and distant, “Fucking cunt! I’ll show her! One day, you’ll see- she’ll love me back!”

If fear hadn’t been gripping at her heart, Evelyn _might_ have just rolled her eyes.

_Why do I always get the nutters? Can’t I just come into contact with NORMAL people?_

From the corner of her eye, she could see the city of London fall away into darkness and the sparsely scattered street lights dot the road as far as she could tell.

_Where the hell are we going_?

Minutes dragged on and the man in the front seat continued to berate some unknown woman who had obviously wronged him something awful. She suddenly jerked forward and smashed her face into the passenger seat as her attacker slammed the car to a halt. Her eyes traced him as he slammed his door and murmured to himself before he swung her out of the car and towards an old factory or mill of some sort.

_So this is the place,_ her mind supplied as she looked it over. _Not the worst first date, I suppose._

She felt a palm at her back as the man urged her inside and Evelyn obliged, knowing full and well that there was really nothing else she could do.

He led her towards what looked like an office, complete with desk, but littered with paper and grime. She would have wrinkled her nose from the pungent stench had she the faculties, but instead settled for a dead-eyed glare at her assailant.

He continued to murmur to himself and Evelyn set about deducing him where he stood.

_Most definitely construction of some sort. Doesn’t live here. Somewhere cheap though, judging by the ceiling chips caught in his hair. Physically exhausted- not used to doing this twice in a row. Older- requires recharging period. Left-handed. Lives alone. Colour-blind. And THERE it is._

The man slipped a photograph from the desk and set it there, staring at a rather attractive-looking young woman, at least a decade older than she. The man looked back down and walked towards her, pushing her down into the long-neglected couch practically rotting where it stood. As he bent her knees, the man set the photograph in her palms, demanding, “Look at it.”

She did just that.

Long, straight brunette hair was clipped just above her breast and her eyes were just the shade of hazel that was almost too dark to see unless seen in person. Her face was full and the apples of her cheeks high, giving her a youthful appearance even as she grew older.

“Rachel,” the man stated blandly, plucking the picture from her hands. “She was mine until she went away!”

The man jerked away from her and paced the paper-littered floor, mumbling to himself again. Only then did she notice the buzzing of flies; the hum of insects coming from somewhere near, but not in the middle of the room. She focused her ears until she noticed the door across the room from her- a closet of some sort- she assumed.

“I didn’t show the other girls,” he admitted, pacing back and forth. “She wouldn’t have liked any of them. Filthy girls all pissed and flailin’ about. My Rachel was classy! She’da liked you though.” He shook his head and paced towards the door and back again. “Nah, I took care of the others in the street- where they belonged! Filthy whores!”

_Curious,_ she thought, lowering her eyes to the ground where he continued to pace. _Show the other girls what?_  Speckles of rusty brown splattered about on the floor and her stomach rolled in apprehension.

_Christ- this is not actually happening. Just pinch yourself- you’ll wake up. Just wake up- wake up! Wake up!_

Unfortunately, her wishes went on unheeded and the man jerked towards the door and opened it, sending a wave of something terribly foul into the air and causing Evelyn to gag involuntarily.

_Dear God!_

Her eyes watered as something heavy thunked out of the closet and her mind literally _screamed_. She felt her heart patter in the prison of her ribcage and her palms sweat with fright.

_Is that… a body?_

 

***

 

John tossed some amount of notes at the cabbie, hoping it would be enough and chased his husband into the enormous building, almost skidding in the muck outside, and hoping to whatever deity existed that he was right. He raced after the billowing Belstaff and nearly toppled over his husband as he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

“Sher-” John began before the detective clapped a gloved hand over his mouth.

There was silence for a moment before the two men heard a third hollering profanities and abuse at someone, presumably their daughter.

“This way,” Sherlock whispered, releasing John’s mouth and pulling his hand up a rusted set of stairs and onto the first floor.

“ _You left right when I needed you, you selfish bitch!”_

The haughty voice echoed in the building and Sherlock could feel his teeth set on edge. His cat eyes darted about until he saw a single stream of light emanating from within an office of some sort and he traced the wall as the two of them crept closer. A nauseating aroma began to fill the air and Sherlock placed it immediately, wrinkling his nose at the thought.

“ _See how much she wants me? Ripe under my fingers. Isn’t she pretty? You’da liked her.”_

On his side, John raised his gun and aimed it at the door, nodding at Sherlock once before kicking it in.

Wood separated as the door jerked on its hinges and John lowered his aim onto the man pressing against his daughter on the ground; his heavy hand gripping painfully tight at her exposed hip and her head tilted up towards him.

She was completely clothed, ( _Thank God)_   but her jeans had been pulled down over her hips, exposing a tuft of fair hair at the line of her knickers. Her head lolled to the side as the man changed his line of sight and released her cheek. A tear of unexpressed gratitude escaped her and John’s heart trembled. The interrupted man growled and his eyes lit up with fury as John stepped towards him, deliberately and with authority.

“Off of my daughter. Now!”

“Who the hell-?”

“I said _now_ , you bastard!” John hollered, his Captain Watson voice echoing in the small room that stank like rotting meat.

Noticing that there was no other option, the man did just that; slowly lifting himself off the girl and fixing his own trousers before lifting his hands in surrender.

Just then, a dark shadow sprung past him and before he had exhaled his breath, he heard the sickening _pop_ of a fist dislocating a slack jaw.

“Sherlock!” He yelled out, lowering his weapon and tucking in the back of his jeans as the detective was now straddling the culprit to the ground; successfully wiping away his consciousness with gloved hands.

John lifted the detective underneath the arms and leaned back all of his weight to pull him away; the taller man flailing every limb and fighting him all the way.

“Sherlock, let him be!”

With much arduous struggling, the doctor finally lifted Sherlock into the air, finding that it only allowed him to attack the bleeding man on the floor with his fine leather shoes.  The man’s head flung to the side when Sherlock’s right foot connected with his cheek as the detective kicked out in frustration.

“Oh, Christ,” John sighed, hauling the furious man to the side and holding him to the ground.

“Unhand me, John!” Sherlock snapped, struggling tirelessly to be set free.

John grunted as he tried to keep the struggling at bay and finally decided to lay his entire deadweight on him. The detective beneath him _oomfed_ with the excess weight and John lifted his head to look his husband in the eye, “Are you done?”

“That deplorable excuse for a Neanderthal drugged and _touched_ our daughter, you idiot! Let me _go_!” Sherlock barked, his compressed chest finding it hard to inhale enough air to form the words.

“Yes, he did,” John agreed. “But I’m afraid if you hit him again, he’ll wake up not knowing his own bloody name!”

“Saves some poor fool the effort of etching it on his tombstone!” The detective growled as John lifted up and pressed his shoulders into the ground, groaning.

“Fine,” John sighed, standing up and releasing the detective.

Sherlock scowled as he jumped to his feet and- to John’s astonishment- towards their daughter. His large hand cupped her cheek and brushed the slightly damp fringe from her face, “Darling, are you all right? You must be; you’re a Watson. Oh, well that’s brilliant- ask her if she’s all right when you know quite well she can’t answer. Evelyn, you’re going to be just fine. Can you stand? As if you could answer that either. Oh, bugger. Come on then.”

Her expressionless face twitched slightly as his hands danced over her, checking her pulse and lifting her to her feet. He caught her as her knees gave out suddenly underneath her weight, and wrapped a long arm around her torso, “Alright, love. Dad’s got you.” He pressed a kiss to her brow as he led her through the doorway and into the hall, “Just forget this all happened; put it from your mind. No need to include it in that little book of yours at all-”

“ _Oh, Christ!”_

Sherlock winced as he heard John holler and gag behind him in the room. He turned to see a very green looking doctor emerge from the doorway with wide eyes.

“Sherlock- there’s… a-”

“Yes, I know, John; probably the ‘you’ that _Philistine_ was referring to.” He wrinkled his nose, “There’s a lingering stench of despair around her- he probably killed her after finding about the affair. I’d say she’s been dead a month- no, two. Honestly, John- and you call yourself a doctor.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but closed in in better judgment.

The good doctor thought he’d seen everything by this leg of his life, but it seemed that living with the World’s Only Consulting Detective and his blonde Mini-Me had some rather _interesting_ fringe benefits.


	32. Truth Be Told

“Gone? What do you mean she’s _gone?!_ ” John hollered into the phone startling the detective who had just nodded off on the cab ride back to the hospital so that Evelyn could be treated with estrogen-progesterone to counteract the Scopolamine effects on her body as soon as possible. Sherlock jerked his head up and glared at John with narrowed eyes mouthing, _“Abigail?”_

John nodded and listened to the D.I. on the other line before yelling furiously, “She’s a bloody eighteen-year-old girl! How could you _lose_ her?”

“ _You were supposed to let me know the second she woke up, ya Gumby!”_ Lestrade hollered back over the line, loud enough that the detective could hear.

John sunk his head into his hands, “You have _no_ idea where she went?”

Lestrade gave the negative and John sighed, “Alright, we’ll see if we can find her.”

He tapped the call shut and slumped in the seat across from the detective, shaking his head, “Bloody Hell, Sherlock. She’s _gone_. They have no idea where she went.”

“She’s practically a child and it’s below freezing outside,” Sherlock commented nonchalantly, “she’ll turn up eventually.”

“Yeah- frozen in a ditch in God-knows-where!” John huffed incredulously, glaring out of the window and towards the hospital they were solely encroaching upon.

“So melodramatic,” Sherlock hummed as the cab pulled up and he helped his daughter out, her deadpan expression still unnerving his gut.

John scowled, “You could be at least _a little_ more concerned that there is a missing child, Sherlock!”

The detective shrugged and continued to half-carry their daughter into the establishment until a nurse flitted over to them and sat her down in a wheelchair, beginning the paperwork for emergency admission.

John and filled out the appropriate forms while Sherlock peered into the database, discovering that Jeremy had in fact been admitted and his room was on the seventh floor. John gave the nurse a tight smile and yanked the detective into the hallway by his sleeve.

“Alright, Sherlock- spit it out. Even _you_ would be a little more upset unless you had a plan. What is it?”

Sherlock tugged John towards the lift and ushered him inside, “Do you trust me?”

John flinched and narrowed his eyes at the detective who stood stoic and tall beside him. That phrase _never_ had a pleasant connotation as far as John was concerned, “With my life.”

“With that of our daughter?” Sherlock prodded with a cocked brow, turning to look down his nose at the doctor.

John held his stare for a moment as he debated then conceded, looking back towards the lift doors, “You’ve never lead me astray before.”

Sherlock smiled, “Good.” He slipped the gloves from his hands as the lift doors opened and allowed them onto the seventh floor

They meandered into Jeremy’s hospital room after knocking against the doorframe and were greeted with a lopsided smile, “Hey.”

John smiled and rested a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, “Hey yourself. How are you feeling?”

Emerald eyes creased as he shrugged, “Like I got hit in the head with a brick- but besides that, I’m all right. Where’s Evelyn?”

The doctor patted his shoulder, “She’s all right, don’t worry.”

John smiled as Sherlock gently dropped the laptop John had been carrying on Jeremy’s lap, “Do you think you could set up that program for us? The one you’ve been utilizing with Evelyn’s cases?”

Jeremy sat up straight and groaned as his head ached, “Well, yeah, sure. Why?”

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly and narrowed his eyes, “I am inclined to think that the world is a rather miniscule place after all.”

 

***

 

Abigail leaned against the coarse concrete pillar on the outside of the airport, clutching at her abdomen.

“Jesus,” she whispered to herself, leaning her entire weight against it, “I feel sick as a damn dog.”

A man gently bumped into her arm as he passed her and she yelped, jerking out of the way so that she could see his face before his expression of concern caused her to look away and back at the ground.

Her teeth chattered together in the cold air and she lifted a small backpack she had packed after escaping to her dorm from where it fell on the ground; delicately carrying it over her shoulder as she slipped into the sliding glass doors and into the airport.

_Just remember- Stina and Mom are at Granny and Pappy’s. They’re safe. Pappy will take care of them. It’s Thanksgiving, remember?_

Hundreds of people bustled about in the airport, many of which she assumed had no idea it was a national holiday just over the Atlantic Ocean. What she wouldn’t give just to be sitting at the table with them, she thought, clutching at her gut against as it roiled violently, forcing her to run to the nearest loo and sick up the meager contents in her stomach.

“When does this _end?”_ She whimpered quietly, clutching the toilet bowl before crumpling to the side of it in a heap.

Hell, she’d seen a thousand television shows depicting rape and how it affected its victims- _wait._

She retched into the bowl again and ended on a chocked sob. _She_ was a _victim_ now.

“G-God,” she breathed, raking a hand through her messy hair and attempting to straighten it out. Forcing herself to remember her train of thought, she remembered the shows where the detectives would heroically save the would-be-victims from their fates and even if they didn’t arrive in time, they were there to help clean up the mess. She didn’t have that. In this, as in every other aspect of her life she was one-hundred-percent _alone._

Her entire body ached with the havoc shivering wreaked on her healthy frame and she could feel every tear and every bruise that _monster_ had inflicted upon her _there_. If she had anything left in her gut, she would have subsequently threw it up then, but fate was no longer on her side and she only retched fruitlessly before flushing and forcing herself to meet her own gaze in the mirror.

She smiled mirthlessly, “Jesus, Abigail- you look like shit.” Bruises sunk underneath her eyes and her normally tanned skin was sickly pale and ashy looking.

She washed her mouth out and straightened herself, fixing her clothes and face- performing the daily ritual of donning the _everything’s-all-right_ mask until she was satisfied that strangers wouldn’t be able to read her despair on her face.

She had found early on in life that if she _acted_ like her heart was on her sleeve, open and inviting, she could get away with keeping the heavy emotions in without concerning those around her; a rather convenient talent.

Abigail picked her backpack up and slung it over her shoulder, striding out confidently into the buzz of the airport until she could find a clerk to purchase her ticket, reading the huge marquee of flashing flight times to decipher which one would get her back to Florida the fastest.

She just needed to get home. Get home and fix everything. She could do that; one flight away from fixing _all_ of her mistakes.

“Red-eye flights have always been the bane of my existence, but to each their own.”

Abigail nearly screamed when the familiar baritone snuck up behind her and she swiveled around meeting a mop-topped detective and his sharp gaze.

He looked about the airport and frowned, “Curious, this doesn’t _look_ like a hospital to me.”

“I don’t need to be in a hospital,” she protested, feeling sick to her stomach again. “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

“Miss White,” he tilted his head, extending his hand. “Could we perhaps speak in a less populated environment?”

Sherlock noticed her flinch as he attempted to make contact and she receded in on herself, “Why?”

The detective hummed as he looked around again, “Because I have questions and I’m sure you’d rather not make a scene, Miss White, is that correct?”

Ebony eyes flitted around as she glanced at a hundred unaware faces that passed her. She nodded silently and followed as Sherlock lead her into a rather desolated wing of the airport, hardly a soul in sight as most of the gates were disused and the entire hallway was silent. He gestured to a seat that she took willingly, if not a little uneasily, as he continued to stand; hands thrust into his Belstaff pockets.

Her cheeks flushed as she bore a hole in the ground with her stare, “What do you want?”

Sherlock hummed and shrugged a shoulder, “I suppose I could tell you why you’re here, but it’d be much more convenient for you to just confess.”

She jerked her head up and scowled, “ _Confess?_ Confess _what,_ pray tell?”

Sherlock suddenly grew dark and his voice dropped an octave, “Tell me how you’re related to Colonel Moran.”

Abigail’s face drained of all color and Sherlock could see her entire frame tremble where she sat, although she did put up a quite impressive façade of calm, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

Sherlock grabbed her shoulder to which she squealed and jerked away from him, raising her arm to block him and turning her head away from him, “Stop! Please! I actually have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“What is your relation to Colonel Moran?” He growled, ignoring her protests and gripping her shoulders a tad too tightly and jerking her back towards him.

Abigail swatted at him and Sherlock was almost stunned to see honest tears drip down her Native-American cheeks, “I’ll- oh my God- I’ll tell you everything, just stop _t-touching me_! _P-please!”_

Sherlock released her immediately and suddenly felt his paternal instincts go haywire as the young woman pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed into them, her entire frame shivering as her mind replayed the last night’s events in her brain. He suddenly felt _guilty_ for eliciting the reaction and almost shook his head to banish the thought from his mind. The detective sat quietly and waited as Abigail closed her eyes tight and pinched her lips together inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, regaining her composure surprisingly quickly. She sucked in one final breath and when she exhaled, she opened her black orb eyes blanking out any traces of emotion on her face.

She set her jaw and jerked up her chin as he had seen John do a hundred times when he was preparing himself for conflict and she looked him in the eye, slipping her feet back down to the floor and sitting up straight, “Look, I don’t know who this Colonel is.”

“I’ve seen the photographs,” Sherlock said plainly watching as her mask dropped for a half a second before she painted it back on again.

“Then you know my involvement already,” she stated flatly, refusing to break eye contact. “That’s it; nothing more.”

Sherlock hummed as he kneeled down in front of her, matching her eye level, “You know, once upon a time I said ‘love is a much more vicious motivator.’ Your sister, she’s your motivation. The question is, however, your motivation for _what_.”

Abigail clenched her jaw and Sherlock noticed the trembling she tried to hide by crossing her arms, “For coming to the UK to learn. That’s it. And now I need to get home.”

“Midway through a term?” Sherlock cocked his brow, “Not a very decent time for a holiday, I’m afraid.”

Abigail shrugged, “Perhaps not. Guess I’m homesick.”

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow disbelievingly and scowled, “Don’t waste my time.”

“Then let me _go,_ ” Abigail demanded, standing to her feet and clutching her bag against her back. “I need to buy my ticket, thanks.”

She attempted to push Sherlock to the side, but the detective was impassable and jerked her back in front of him by her shoulders. He narrowed his eyes at her and gave his most menacing growl, “Abigail, if you do not explain your involvement in all of this, your sister _will die._ ”

The detective nearly reached out again as he felt Abigail’s knees tremble beneath her and her face became a mixture of fury and fear, “You _wouldn’t dare_.”

Sherlock shrugged and thinned his lips, “You’re right, _I_ wouldn’t. But then I’m not the only force at play here, am I?”

Abigail’s breath became labored as she stood at her full height and challenged the detective with her stance, “No. And I’m going to fix this.”

“Fix what?” Sherlock prodded, looking down his nose at her, “You’re the oldest daughter of a low-income home. The closest your family has ever been to a college education is choosing which team to cheer for a football games. Your sister is Autistic, not severely, but farther down the spectrum than Asperger’s. What would she do without you, hmm? Her _heroic_ big sister.”

Abigail’s jaw clenched and she could feel her teeth almost cracking with the force, “Stop it.”

“Or your mother? She’s just over the moon with you isn’t she? Divorced, single parent; you’re her pride and joy. What would she become if she found out that her youngest daughter was killed as a result of her older daughter’s stupidity?”

“Shut _up_!” She screamed, gripping her hands to her head and shrinking back down to the seat. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”

“Wasn’t supposed to be like what?” Sherlock pressed, kneeling before her again.

“Any of this! None of this was supposed to happen!” Abigail’s flushed cheeks were stained with streaks of saline that suddenly betrayed her true emotions. She shook her head and dropped it into her hands, “I didn’t _ask_ for _any_ of this! You have to understand! It’s all gone _wrong._ I didn’t _want_ this!”

She lifted her head and the way her face pinched in pain gave her a terribly youthful look and Sherlock felt concern in his chest grow- something called _empathy_. Rather inconvenient at a time when all Sherlock wanted was answers. She shook her head again and wiped clumsily at her face, “Can I explain? I don’t know what you’re going to do to me, but I want to be able to explain. Please.”

_What I’m going to do to you?_ Sherlock crinkled his nose. _When did I become the antagonist?_

He gestured at her to speak and she lowered her face to the ground, silky brown hair slipping over her ears and covering her face.

“You said you knew- about my parents,” she started with a sniffle. “Did you get that from me or a file?”

Sherlock was caught off-guard by the in-depth question and sat back on his heels, giving her space, “I can read it on you, much like my daughter did. I do however have a file my brother collected on you.” He slipped a manila folder from his coat and presented it to her without offering her to look at it. “Your family life is rather…”

“Shitty?” Abigail chuckled mirthlessly, a sad smile painting her lips. “Yeah, I guess it was for a while. But eventually my mom saved up enough to leave. But you know what? Divorce requires lawyers. Lawyers cost money. Money was something we didn’t have.” She dropped her face down again and sighed, “We lost everything but each other. My dad- he’s- well- you have a file. You know what he was like. Anyways, it was really tight for a while. Stina had therapy every week and Mom tried to make ends meet with jobs she could get, but what can you do without a college degree?” She laughed, “It’s a stupid piece of friggin’ _paper_ and my mom didn’t have one. She made me swear I’d never get stuck like she did. If I did nothing else in my life I needed to support myself, and I promised her I would. As soon as I turned sixteen, I got a job. I was up at five in the morning for dual-enrollment, then I went to high school, then as soon as I got out at three-thirty, I was at the shop- normally till like ten or eleven. _Every day_. I even got a weekend job with my Ag teacher helping her break in her new cattle for the students to show at fair. It worked and everything was _fine_.”

Sherlock suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to hug Abigail close to his chest as her body trembled before him, “I could give my mom my paycheck and she could pay for the electricity or groceries or whatever we needed and everything was _fine._ But then I got to senior year and I had to decide if I could go to college and potentially bankrupt my family or just stay doing what I could to support them.” She lifted her face and laughed mirthlessly, shaking her head and blinking the emotion from her eyes, “It was like a dern miracle. This lady came to my school and pulled me out of class. Told me about this scholarship she sponsored for girls like me- you know- low income, hardworking, good grades- and I could go to a university overseas! It was everything I wanted.” She numerated the points on her fingers, her eyes finally meeting Sherlock’s, “I looked it up and it seemed legit! It paid for my room and board, my tuition, and it even gave me enough of a stipend that I got to pay for Stina’s therapy for the next six months and I got Mom a second-hand laptop. It was perfect. All I had to do was document my time: where I went, who I saw, what I did. You know, just busy work to keep them supporting me.”

“Something happened,” Sherlock stated narrowing his eyes. “What?”

Abigail sobbed, terribly thankful for the lack of an audience and rubbed at her face again, “It was going _fine_! She told me I’d be rooming with this girl named Evelyn Watson and when I met her, I thought this was all too good to be true because we hit it off right away. I was doing well in classes, even better than Evelyn in our class together, but my sponsor, she- she got weird. In my journal I wrote about her and Jeremy and Michael because- you know- they’re my only friends here really, but then she started getting hostile about it. She kept asking me more and more questions about Evelyn and it didn’t feel right so I stopped writing about them altogether.”

She waved at some invisible assailant past the detective, “Then she wrote me this fucking _scathing_ letter telling me that she needed to know more about Evelyn Watson or she’d drop me from the program. I told her it wasn’t right and that I felt uncomfortable with it because I felt like I was spying and then she sent me those pictures!”

Abigail slumped forward and began to sob wholeheartedly, covering her face, “I know what those photos were taken with. Pappy was a SEAL- I _know_ those were sniper rifles. I made a _terrible_ mistake and I _have_ to fix it!” She stood on jelly legs and pleaded with the detective, “So _please_. _Please_ let me go. Let me get on that plane. Let me find my mom and sister and get them into hiding. I have worked so hard, I can’t have them taken away from me. I won’t have anything left!”

Sherlock hadn’t realized the depths this young woman had gone and it nearly broke his heart so he rested a hand on her arm and pulled her back to the seat, “Abigail, you are in no condition to be doing anything of the sort.”

Abigail jerked her hand away and gestured at the terminal, her melancholy rapidly turning into venom, “Yes, I was _raped!_ Yes, I walked out of my fucking dorm in the middle of the night and some fucking asswipe did something to me that I don’t understand and I couldn’t do a _damn_ thing about it! I guess I _asked_ for it, didn’t I? Welp, I got it! And you know what? Everywhere I look, I see his face. I can feel his breath on my skin and everything _fucking hurts_! My body is fighting against me and I can’t keep _anything_ down because anytime someone so much as _touches_ me, I panic and throw it all back up! But you know what? My little sister is on the opposite side of a sniper’s rifle and I don’t have the luxury of wallowing in my own self-pity!” She puffed out her chest and whipped her hand around to enunciate her point, “I couldn’t do anything that night! He took my control- the only thing I have ever had that was entirely mine- and ripped it apart in front of me! I couldn’t do anything for myself but I will be _damned_ if I condemn Stina to that, too!”

Sherlock noticed the girl in front of him wobble on her feet as her chest heaved in sobs, “She won’t make it, Mr. Holmes. She will _die_ if anything like that happens to her and I don’t trust anyone who could put a sniper on an Autistic sixteen-year-old to not go to those measures! I will do _whatever_ it takes to keep her _safe_! Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell was in those IV’s?” She began to scratch at the crooks of her elbows where she had haphazardly removed the drips earlier that afternoon.

“You’re bleeding,” Sherlock commented as he watched crimson stain the inner part of her light purple sleeve.

“You know what, Mr. Holmes?” She yelled, swaying as the terminal began to tilt on its side, “I hate to do this, I know it’s insanely rude, but I have to go.” She took a wobbly step forward and leaned a considerable amount on the wall, her hand tracing its smooth surface as she stumbled forward, “God, it’s fucking freezing in here! Look, if you’re going to try and stop me, I’d rather you just shoot me; saves them the effort of doing it later.”

Sherlock jerked in front of her and held out his hand, making sure not to touch her, “Why didn’t you come to me?”

That seemed to catch Abigail off guard and she lifted her flushed face at him, “Wait- what?”

Sherlock tilted his head, “I’m a consulting detective, Abigail. I could have helped you; why didn’t you come to me?”

Abigail blinked slowly and leaned her entire body against the wall, still rubbing at her sore forearms, “I didn’t- I dunno- look, I’ve wasted enough time- I just need to-”

“Whoa!” Sherlock braced himself for Abigail’s frame that suddenly collapsed in his arms as she slumped against the wall. “John!”

Hearing his name over the speaker on Jeremy’s computer, John flipped it shut and shoved it into his satchel, springing from his keep down the hall to the detective and the girl in his arms. John eased her down onto the floor and frowned at her racing heartbeat and the sickly pallor of her tan skin.

“She’s in shock, Sherlock,” John said mildly, sliding his coat off of his shoulders and wrapping it around the young woman’s torso.

The detective was silent as he regarded the young woman whose head lolled on the ground as her body finally gave up the fight before turning back to John, “I hadn’t the slightest.”

John scowled as he rubbed on the young woman’s arms and back, turning her over on her side, “Nobody did. Christ, Abigail, can you hear me? Are you still with us?”

Ebony eyes fluttered and she groaned softly, pulling John’s jacket tighter around her chest. John smiled, “Good girl, stay with me. Can you tell me- who was your sponsor? What was her name?”

Abigail’s eyes peeled open like they had been glued shut and she had a hard time keeping them alert, “Seb- name was Seb-”

“Seb- what?” Sherlock pressed impatiently, finding himself closer than ever before to _finally_ ending the nightmare of Moriarty and _everything_ related to him.

“Sebast… iana,” she groaned, shivering as shock wracked through her system, “Moran.”

John shot Sherlock a glare, “Sebastiana?”

“Of _course!_ ” Sherlock cried out, raking a hand through his hair. “All these years I’ve been looking for a _man_! It’s always _something!”_

“Not a colonel,” she mumbled, her eyes pinching tight as she curled in on herself. “Just Ms. Moran.”

John pursed his lips as he turned to his husband, “The man you told that Williams bloke about- that Colonel Moran- do you think she’s a copycat or what?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No idea. But at least we have something to work with now.”

John sighed and pulled at Abigail’s arm, “Well come on then, help me get her up. We’re gonna have a long night.”

 

***

 

“Christ,” Evelyn breathed as she watched the screen with Jeremy in the hallway of the hospital after both of them had been released with respective clean bills of health.

Jeremy pressed back against the wall and leaned his head against Evelyn’s shoulder as the screen shifted to an image of John saying something about shock, “She’s just a bloody _kid_.”

Evelyn jerked up her head and questioned her father, “What about her family? Can’t we help or something?”

John shrugged as he knelt down to eye level with her, “You father spoke to your uncle about putting a detail on them, but they’re not in his jurisdiction, so I’m not sure how well it’s gonna go.”

“But he’s Mycroft Holmes!” She protested, shaking her head, “He’s the most powerful man in Europe!”

“But not the world,” John said quietly caressing her cheek. “We’ll figure it out, love. We always do.”

“ _Not again_ ,” they heard a weary voice whine from within the hospital room they waited outside of.

Evelyn jumped to her feet and sprinted inside, “Abigail!”

The young woman furrowed her brow as she tried to focus her eyes on the bouncing blonde hair in front of her, “Evelyn? What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to come to your senses, love,” she said with a smile, jerking a chair to her bedside whilst the two other men meandered into the room.

“You need to leave,” Abigail said gruffly, sitting up groggily and shaking her head. “I need you to go. All of you.”

She suddenly felt warmth around her hand as Evelyn took it in hers, holding it tight, “No. You need friends, Abigail. Please let us help you. You don’t have to do this by yourself, you know.”

“Last time someone tried to help me my sister ended up with a rifle pointed at her!” Abigail cried out, jerking her hand back to her. “Let’s be honest, it’s not like y’all haven’t all seen the pictures. So please, let me _go_!”

“No!” Jeremy said sternly, his deep voice startling the American into silence. He clasped both of her hand in his larger ones and brought them to his lips. “Abigail, look me in the eye.” Reluctantly she did so and the expression he gave baffled her, “You’re not the only person this has happened to here.” Her eyes widened at the revelation and he continued, “I promise you, you can’t get through this alone. We can keep your sister safe later, but right now we need to keep _you_ safe. You can’t do anything for Christina if you breakdown every time she hugs you.”

Evelyn’s navy eyes expanded at the thought and she tilted her head, “Jeremy… Why didn’t you tell me?”

The tall boy shrugged and chewed on his cheek, “It happened before I met you and there’s not been a reason to bring it up till now.”

Abigail sniffled and raised her head so that she didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone there, “So what am I supposed to do?”

Sherlock’s dark coat fluttered around him as he stepped into the room and narrowed his eyes at her, “Exactly what you have been doing: _reporting_.”

Abigail furrowed her brow and look at the detective, confusion settling in her gut, “What? She’s _your_ daughter and you want me to _spy_ on her?”

Sherlock shook his head and gestured to her, “Moran wants you to report, so that’s exactly what you’re going to do. Make her feel like she has the upper-hand and perhaps we can tear her down.”

“What about Stina?” Abigail asked quietly, scrubbing at her face.  “What if she goes after her?”

“Well, we’ll have to get a hold of her first,” John said confidently, creasing his eyes in a genuine smile.

“How?” Abigail pressed, obviously not buying their confidence one bit.

Sherlock smiled and John caught glimpse of the terrifyingly brilliant man he fell in love with sparkle in his eye.

 

“The game is on,” his deep voice asserted, his chin head nodding in acceptance of the challenge, “and we’re going to play it.”

 


	33. The Devil's Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my loyal readers! I am so sorry about the lack of updating on my behalf. Fall semester came in with a terrible force and I have barely had the time to sit down and breathe, must less write. HOPEFULLY, this shall not be the case for long and I will be able to update more regularly until the end of this wonderful story. Thank you so much for continuing to read this fic and I hope you enjoy the newest update!

Post 94

Posted: 21:29

November 22nd  

_The days are getting colder and the nights are getting longer. Evelyn swears that I’m going to freeze to death before the winter is out, but I can’t imagine that coming to fruition; the wonders of Native American blood, you know. She’s been harping me about our newest assignment. Apparently we’re to make our own ending for a play for English. I halfway want to write an ending that doesn’t involve the death of six people due to Romeo’s inability to keep it in his pants, but I’m afraid that’s a little cliché. C’est la vie, I suppose. Speaking of friends, Jeremy’s wonderful. He’s shown me all the little crooks and crannies there are in the university and now I finally have someone to listen to my constant whining about British Television shows. Vigo Broderick, the main character from “Black Ties”- oh my- his eyes! Although, Jeremy’s more obsessed with “Big Ben’s” wonderful Matthew Wallace, but I don’t hold it against him. Haven’t spoken to my sister in a few days. Hope she’s all right. Junior year can be tough, and it’s even worse for someone who doesn’t quite fit in._

 

Post 99

Posted: 22:12

November 27th

_I’m ready to go home. At least for a little bit. My friends here have been great, but I really miss sitting outside on my lawn and hearing the train go by. All the trains in the city are underground; makes it difficult to hear anything soothing in the middle of the night, but I’ve made do. Evelyn’s been talking about going to France with her family for Christmas. Suppose that should be fun; I’ve heard a lot of things about France, but you know what they say about rumors. She’s a lovely friend. I’ve read SO MUCH since I’ve known her. I mean, don’t get me wrong- I love reading. But she reads CONSTANTLY. I’ve never seen a person with their nose stuck in a book that often! It’s crazy. Or as they say here “barmy”. Wait… That doesn’t seem right. Can you use “barmy” like that? Maybe it’s one of those adjectives that can only be used to describe people. I’ve no idea. You know, it’s been almost five months, and I am STILL having issues with the jargon here. You know if you bomb a test here that’s a GOOD thing? Like- what? Maybe one day I’ll figure all of it out, but not anytime soon. Evelyn still thinks I sound like a redneck, or well I don’t know if she knows what that is, but that’s how she describes it. It’s worthy of a good laugh anyways, I think. Speaking of Evelyn, we’re going on a case! Yes, yes an actual CASE! I’m so excited! I get to play the bait and that’s going to be an absolute blast! Perhaps I’ll get to chase someone down like in the TV shows or maybe we’ll get in the school paper. It’d be awesome to get this creep off the streets anyways. I’ll have to let you know what happens when I get back! :)_

 

Post 100

December 6th

Posted: 09:48

_Sorry I haven’t been writing. I know it’s been a while… It’s been… I’m not going to write about it. No one really needs to know. I wish I didn’t. I wish I could just turn everything off. Unfortunately, my wondrous powers do not include fixing myself. It’s… rather a pity. Anyways, I’m meeting Ms. Moran today. First time since I’ve come to the UK and I’m kind of terrified. Not that I get terrified for stupid things, I just… Things have been rough… Grades dropped a bit in November and I’m still trying to pick them back up for the end of the term. It’s been two weeks and I still… Today’s a bad day… Evelyn tells me there’s going to be a few of them every so often, but I just want it to stop. I just want everything to stop. I’m terrified. I feel like all of my controls have been ripped away from me and now I’m just riding the waves hoping to wash up on some shore eventually. I hate it. I hate it so much. I just want to be in control again. I just want everything to stop. It’s awful. Like I said- today’s a bad day. I’m sorry, I can’t creep on my friends in this post. Ms. Moran will just have to get over it. I’m done. Just… done._

 

***

 

“Hey, you all right?”

Evelyn quietly clicked their dorm door closed and padded to Abigail’s bed, slipping her bag off of her shoulder and tossing it on her desk as she passed it. Her brunette friend curled underneath thick blankets and pillows and a choked sob slipped from beneath the fabric.

“Oh, Abigail,” Evelyn fussed, chewing her lip and sliding up onto Abigail’s mattress. She gently tugged on broad shoulders and pursed her brow, “Come here, love.”

Silky hair rippled over her flushed features as she set her head in Evelyn’s lap and covered her face with her palms. Evelyn tucked the fine hair behind her ear and rested a palm on her friend’s shoulder, “Shhh, Abigail. You’re all right. Shhh. What’s going on?”

It tore her heart apart to see her friend in such shambles. This bright girl, who had radiated confidence and joy from the moment they had met, was now just a beacon of melancholy and strife. Her dark eyes grew heavier and sunk in to her paling cheeks that had lost their happy glow. There was no more sweet laughter to fill their small room; only cries in the night that ripped both young women from their slumbers, no matter whom it had been emitted from.

Evelyn attempted a smile and patted Abigail’s cheek, “Chin up, love. Everything is all right. My Dad is going to come up with something marvelous! He’s bloody brilliant and with Daddy on his tail, there’s no telling what they’ll come up with. Everything is going to be _just fine_.”

“Evelyn…” A cracked voice finally whispered in between the sandy-haired girl’s soothing.

“Hmm?”

The was a soft hiccup and a shift of cloth as Abigail covered her face, “I’m done.”

Evelyn pursed her brow and leaned forward in the hopes of catching her friend’s eye, “Done? What do you mean?”

Abigail sobbed softly and shook her head before sitting up and curling in on herself against the wall, “All of this would be over if I just didn’t… God, I’d rather just-”

“Abigail!” Evelyn cried out jerking on her side and grabbing the brunette by the shoulders, forcing her to meet her stare, “No!” She shook her head vigorously and frowned, “Abigail, no, _absolutely not_! Please, I know it hurts. I promise, I understand- but that’s not the answer. It will never be the answer. Please, Abigail.” She cupped her friend’s cheek and rubbed tenderly on the Native American cheekbone, “Please, don’t think like that. We’ll fix it. You’ve been doing your part and we’ve been doing ours. Now look, the term’s almost up. Come tomorrow night, this nightmare will be _over._ ” She smiled and pressed her forehead to her companion’s clammy one, “Come tomorrow night, Sebastiana Moran will be in the custody of the Metropolitan Police Force and you will be packing your bags for a plane home to America. Doesn’t that sound _wonderful_?”

Abigail sighed and lowered her gaze, “If only it were true.” She shook her head and slipped from the raised bed, running her hands over her face and through her hair, “I’m meeting her today.”

“ _What?_ ” Evelyn’s sharp reply was stressed and she jumped down from the mattress as well to follow her friend into the bathroom.

Abigail dipped down to wash her face and held the flannel to her burning cheeks for a moment too long as if she were steeling herself for battle, “Check my laptop screen. She’s asked me to meet her tonight. Says she wants some information from me that she thinks I’ve been not disclosing.”

She was suddenly jerked to the side as Evelyn’s heavy glare rested on her, “Abigail, what are you _thinking_? The plan is for _tomorrow_ ; you’re- you’re gonna get yourself _killed_!”

Evelyn chuckled mirthlessly and sighed, “Never said it was a part of _your_ plan, Evelyn. And I don’t honestly see the huge detriment. I meet with her and my family is safe. Regardless of what she decides, it won’t do her any good to hurt my family after the fact.”

“What the _hell_ are you _thinking_ you- you- ugh!” Evelyn growled, ripping the cloth from Abigail’s hands and tossing it to the ground to make her point. “Your life is not the only one at stake, Abigail! Don’t you _see_ that?” She levelled Abigail with her glare and continued, “This- this _bitch_ has followed my Dad around and tortured him since before I was even a twinkle in my father’s eye! It’s been years that my Dad has been trying to keep my family safe from her; my entire _life_ , in fact! You can’t just toss away all of his suffering because you can’t get over-!”

“Get over _what_?” Abigail snapped, suddenly stunning Evelyn into silence. Abigail wheezed as her nerves got the better of her and she floundered. “You want me to just get _over it_ , yeah? Well I’m sorry to _inconvenience_ you, Evelyn, but I can’t. I’ve _tried_. Do you think I _want_ to feel like this?” She barked, gesturing to her chest and doing her best to restrain a sob. “You think I _want_ to remember what it was like to not be able to fight back? I was _screaming_ in my head and he wouldn’t stop! Not only that, but even now I’m _screaming_ and Ms. Moran has her hand around my throat and every day she squeezes tighter and tighter-!”

She suddenly slumped to the ground and pulled her knees to her chest, long fingers gripping tightly in her hair, “I just want it to be _over_! In my head, I’m screaming in a room full of people and no one’s listening and it’s like I’m trying to breathe underwater. Ms. Moran’s hands are pushing me beneath the surface and every day I get deeper and I’m suffocating and- I can’t _breathe_!”

Evelyn dipped down and thinned her lips with self-vexation, exhaling a deep sigh before she carded a hand through the dark strands of hair, “I’m… I’m sorry, Abigail. I’m so… _so_ sorry. I know I shouldn’t be yelling at you, it’s just that…” Her shoulders dipped and she slipped to crossed legs on the tile bathroom floor, “I’m scared, too.”

Abigail lifted her face and caught a glimpse of the honest fear reflecting in the deep navy eyes. It was then that she finally thought that perhaps she wasn’t _entirely_ alone.

The two sat in silence, their respective minds turning in on themselves before Abigail finally sighed and her soft voice filled the loo, “You know… I always heard that life was an adventure, but I never believed it till I came here. Too bad mine is ending with such a tragedy…”

Evelyn smiled and looked over to her friend, lifting her hand to grip her companion’s, “Yes, well, I always heard that God gives us mountains so we can learn how to climb. Anyways, an adventure is only over when you give up.”

Abigail smiled weakly and leaned against her friend’s shoulder, “I suppose so.” She sighed and closed her eyes as she gripped Evelyn’s hand back, “Well if this is mine, I’m really glad that I get to share it with you.”

Evelyn’s chest warmed at the sentiment and she chuckled; the sweet melody of joy amidst all of the discord ringing softly against the cold tile.

“Me too, Abigail. Me too.”

 

***

 

“You’re eventually going to have to move.”

John sighed as he stepped into the sitting area and was greeted with Sherlock’s red face as he dangled upside down on the couch, hands steepled underneath his chin. Said detective only rolled his eyes before closing them and bringing his fingertips to his lips.

“I’m sending as much blood and oxygen to my brain as I can. It helps me think.”

“Yeah, well it would make me _sick_ ,” John complained, gently sitting down next to his husband and resting a palm on his belly. “Evelyn just called me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he sighed and shook his head. “Her friend… She’s not doing too well.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, “John, I don’t have-”

“You need to hear this,” John interrupted, earning him a soft glare from the detective who subsequently flipped himself around on the couch and cocked an eyebrow as the blood seeped back into his body.

“Go on, then.”

John thinned his lips and pursed his brow, “Abigail isn’t handling any of this very well. It’s important, Sherlock. She’s a _child_. She’s frightened and she feels like she’s all alone.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Sherlock scowled, rolling his eyes. He leaned back as if he was going to return to his previous position just before John grabbed his shoulder a tad too tightly and pulled him back.

“You could at least _act_ like that bothers you. She’s a _child_. It could have been _Evelyn_ -”

“Yes, well it _wasn’t_ ,” Sherlock snapped, slouching back against the couch with a huff. “Evelyn has a good head on her shoulders that _I_ helped put there. It’s not my fault that her friend isn’t as-”

“S _herlock_ ,” John warned, fisting one hand at his side and steadily pressing hot air from his nostrils. Sherlock took the hint of John’s irritation and shut his mouth until John spoke again. “You can’t tell me that after all these years, you haven’t grasped the concept of _empathy_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and lowered his gaze to the ground, “I’m a _sociopath_ , remember?”

“That’s horseshit and you know it. Try again,” John growled, lifting a pointed brow at the detective until the taller man finally conceded.

“ _Fine_ ,” he sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m _concerned_. But _concerned_ isn’t going to help me capture Moran and put all of this behind us, now is it?”

John sighed and shook his head exasperatedly, lifting his gaze, “Look, I’m just saying that I think we need to do something. I don’t know; show her she’s not alone here. It’s frightening to have to go through all of this on your own. At least Evelyn has _us_ , just imagine Abigail’s predicament. Her entire family is at _least_ nine hours away by plane! That’s horrifying for someone who’s been attacked so violently.” At Sherlock’s impasse expression, John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, “Besides, Moran’s requested that Abigail meet with her tonight. Now I know you were planning-”

“ _Tonight?_ ” Sherlock repeated in shock, furrowing his brow as he pressed his fingertips against his lips and rested his teeth on them.  

“Yes, tonight,” John reiterated, running a hand through his short hair. “As far as I am aware, Greg’s able-”

“ _Tonight_?” He repeated once more, suddenly jumping to his feet and pacing a divot into the floor before John. “Tonight- John, that’s _brilliant!_ Where? What does she want?”

John puffed out his cheeks and felt weary for every time the detective’s nervous energy passed him again, “I don’t know where, but I do know what. She thinks Abigail’s got some information on us that she’s not giving up.”

“Oh, it’s like _Christmas_!” Sherlock exclaimed, his smile faltering only slightly at John’s weary gaze. He then grabbed John’s shoulders and shook them slightly, “John, don’t you _understand_? She’s _frustrated_. She’s losing her confidence and she’s willing to do whatever it takes to get that back.”

“Could you fast forward to the part that explains why a girl’s life on the line is a good thing?” John pressed irately earning him a groan.

“John, she’s _emotional._ ” Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet and jumped to the map he had posted on the wall, rifling through the pictures of mangled corpses and resting his hand on the familiar paper, “She’s emotional, so she’ll be easy to manipulate. She’ll be easy to trick and to control. We can get her where we want her and then snuff her out.”

John was half-concerned about his husband’s lack of regard for human rights until one more sentence slipped from his lips, so silent he wasn’t sure it was meant for his ears, “ _Then it will all finally be over_.”

The detective smiled and his fingertips traced the familiar streets of London; the heavy paper dusty underneath his touch, “Wonderful. I must speak to Anabelle a once!”

“Abigail, but good try.”

“Whatever, she’ll answer me anyways,” Sherlock moaned, stepping over the coffee table and towards his phone on the mantel piece. He then flicked an eye up towards John before looking back down to his mobile, “You’re troubled. Why?”

John shrugged and chewed his cheek, wrapping his arms around him as if there were a draft in the flat, “I’m just… What if we hadn’t been able to get there as soon as we had?”

“‘What if’ never leads anywhere productive, John,” Sherlock hummed, tapping the screen and composing a message to their daughter.

“I know,” John sighed, dipping his face down, “But I can’t help thinking about it. Could you _imagine_? Our little girl- it just… It just makes me sick.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to pop something else off before he caught a glimpse of his distraught husband’s expression. He did indeed look quite ill; almost green if he was to be honest with himself. The ebony-topped man puffed out his cheeks and padded back over to his husband, running long fingers through his sandy hair. John looked up and half-smiled at Sherlock’s affections; leaning into the caress like a cat against his owner’s hand.

“It’s going to be all right, John,” the younger man attempted, his baritone soft in the flat’s chilled air. “Evelyn is safe and… _eventually_ , Abigail will be as well. We just need to finish this once and for all.”

“I know,” the doctor hummed, closing his eyes and reveling in the contact. “I’m just…”

“The world would be a far more tender place if more people cared as much as you,” Sherlock admitted, earning him rolled eyes from the humble doctor.

“So what are we doing then?” John asked as the mobile in Sherlock’s palm chirped at him; a short bird tone indicative of Evelyn’s message.

Sherlock worried his lip between his teeth as he read the message and suddenly his was in their bedroom, switching out clothes.

“Sherlock?” John questioned as he heard the rapid shuffle of clothes and he slowly stood to his feet.

There was suddenly a new set of dark clothes in his arms and a man whose eyes were alight with mad fire ushering him into their room, “The game is on, John- now get dressed!”

 

***

 

Evelyn worried her thumbnail between her teeth as she waited on the corner of Sherridan and Woodston with her companion. December brought with it a thin sprinkling of snow that dusted every surface with white powder. Evelyn expected to just wade through the annoying slush, but was pleasantly surprised when Abigail’s wondrous personality finally broke through the melancholy she’d been stuck in for the last two weeks. Her dark eyes widened and she smiled with a light Evelyn hadn’t seen on her face since the day she’d been attacked as soon as the snow began to fall.

“Oh my god, it’s _beautiful_!” Abigail cried out, lifting a gloved hand to catch little bits of snow that collected together on their way down.

Although she didn’t want to dampen Abigail’s spirits, Evelyn couldn’t help but laugh, “It’s just _snow_.”

Abigail rolled her eyes and the notion warmed Evelyn’s chest, “Well I _know_ that, but look at it!”

“You’re not telling me you’ve never seen _snow_ before,” Evelyn teased, crinkling her nose as a bit fell onto it.

The American smiled and lifted her hand higher as if to catch more of the frozen fluff, “Well, I mean I _have_. But I’ve never seen it snow. Like- you know? I’ve seen the noun, but not the verb.”

The blonde girl smiled and watched her companion closely. It was terribly wonderful to see life in her again. There was a soft crunch of boots against cold concrete and Evelyn lifted her gaze to meet another blonde and brunette pair walking towards them.

She furrowed her brow and frowned, “Jeremy? Michael- what are you two doing here?”

“I invited them,” Abigail piped up as soon as Michael wrapped Evelyn in a hug and pressed his lips to hers in a chaste kiss.

“That she did,” he breathed against her skin, smiling as the words became smoke as then escaped his lips.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes and flicked them back down to her only feminine companion, “Why? You know we’re going to meet Moran tonight.”

Abigail nodded and brushed some falling snow from her dark hair, “I know. And there is power in numbers.”

“Or complications,” the blonde huffed as Jeremy scowled.

“You sound like you don’t want us here.”

“It’s not that; I just don’t want you getting _hurt_ ,” she admitted, leveling him with a stare as cold as the flurries around them. “I don’t know anything about this lady except that she’s ruthless and has no morals of which to speak. I don’t want you two to get caught in the crossfire.”

Michael smiled and brushed blonde hair from her face before walking over to Abigail, “We’ll be fine. I’m sure your father already accounted for us.” His soft blonde hair waved slightly with the wind and he knelt down in front of Abigail, clasping her hand gently in his own.

“How are you doing?” He asked softly, watching her expression darken for a moment before she sighed.

“I’m okay,” she lied, lowering her eyes. “Really, I’m fine.”

Michael smiled sadly and patted her hand gently, “I don’t believe that for a second. You know you’re not alone, right? We’re all here for you.”

Abigail lifted a side of her lips in an attempt at a smile and nodded, allowing Michael to stand back to his feet again.

Evelyn rolled her eyes as Jeremy wrapped his long arms around her in greeting and puffed out white smoke, “I don’t know… Dad’s being touchy about this. I’d not hold my breath if I were you.”

A street or so away, Sherlock nestled his chin into his scarf and watched as John continued to attempt to blow rings of fog into the air (and failing miserably at it). “You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“Bollocks,” John huffed, drawing out a large O with his lips and puffing out hot air, watching as it turned into a cloud and nothing more. “If you can do it, so can I.”

Sherlock smiled and couldn’t contain a bit of snide laughter, “John, you idiot, it’s _steam_. It’s not the same as smoke. It’s not _nearly_ as dense. You see, the density of steam is around-”

“Oh for God’s sakes,” John interrupted him with a scowl as he caught a glimpse of the group of young adults that waited in their meeting spot.

“Nope,” he announced his arrival and shook his head. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“ _Told you,”_ he heard his daughter mutter under her breath as the other three students turned towards him.

“Christ, when did we sign up to run a daycare?” Sherlock groaned through narrowed eyes.

Evelyn smiled and crossed her arms over her chest, “Told. You. But no; no one listens to me.”

“Sorry, children, but you’ll need to go home,” John commanded sternly, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’ve enough to worry about without two extra souls.”

“You know we can help,” Jeremy groaned, shifting on his hip.

Michael began to chatter on about something inane in order to prove his worth to the skeptical doctor just as Evelyn’s phone lit up with a blocked number. She turned away from the group and put it against her ear, her enthusiasm for finally catching this woman radiating through her tone, “Hello?”

“ _Do not react to this phone call.”_

Ice sank in the bottom of her gut and she clenched her jaw as to prevent herself from giving away anything. The voice was one that did not belong to either a man or a woman, but instead to a machine. Thus she decided that the culprit did not want her to be able to recognize their voice quite yet. _Wonderful. Absolutely bloody brilliant._

 _“You’re going to walk away from your friends and family and follow my instructions completely_ ,” the voice said calmly and without inflection. “ _Now ask ‘why would I do that_ ’.”

“Why would I do that?” Evelyn mumbled beneath her breath, making sure to keep her face clean of irritation, concern or any other emotions that may slip onto her expressive face.

_“Because I have the high ground.”_

Navy eyes widened as she watched a red dot suddenly appear on the back of Jeremy’s dark head and she had to swallow the gasp that wanted to jump from her throat.

_“Say ‘I’m listening’.”_

“I-I’m listening,” she stammered, watching as the group was oblivious to the red dot that soon jumped to the back of Abigail’s shoulder blade; just out of view to someone not standing in Evelyn’s exact position.

“ _Good. Now make up an excuse. Bring the girl. Do not act suspicious or I will kill every one of your companions, including your fathers.”_

Evelyn swallowed and listened to the phone click off. _Shit. What do I do? Oh Christ. Oh Christ._

A red light flickered on the back of Jeremy’s head again and the blonde girl painted her façade on, sliding the phone back into her pocket. She grabbed at her stomach and pinched her face in a sour grimace as she leaned heavily against Abigail.

“Hey, you all right there?” Her Southern accent drawled as she looked down and met Evelyn’s paling face.  

She nodded her head and furrowed her brow as she continued to clutch at her abdomen, “Yeah I’m fine, I just. Christ, I think we should call this off. I feel awful. I must have eaten something off. There’s no way I’m going to be of any use to anyone like this.”

John thinned his lips and stepped forward to rest a wrist on her forehead, “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine, Daddy,” she lied, quickly pinching her abdomen muscle and grimacing as if there was a terrible taste in her mouth. “Blech, oh- that was gross. Look, I’m not feeling well, and Abigail and I have  project we haven’t even started on that’s due tomorrow so I think we-” She then cut herself off again with a forced expulsion of bile that she found to be rather easy to fake; her stomach all full of frayed nerves as it was.

“Oh geeze,” Abigail commented, turning to her side and gripping Evelyn’s shoulder; her expression sheer concern. “Do you want me to walk you home? You probably shouldn’t be out by yourself in the cold.”

Evelyn nodded and swallowed thickly, flicking her eyes up to Sherlock as if to convey the message to him alone, “Yeah, that’d be lovely. We need to finish that stupid project anyways.”

John opened his mouth to offer her comfort, but Sherlock cut him off with a mask of false concern, “Very well. Education comes first you know. What’s your project about, may I ask?”

Evelyn smiled weakly and pulled herself away from where she draped on her friend and wrapped her hand around her elbow instead, “Oh it’s just something stupid, really. A waste of brain space, if you ask me. We have to rewrite an ending for a story that we don’t like.” She smiled over at Abigail who seemed completely lost, and her concern for Evelyn’s well-being radiated through her expression.

“Yeah, that’s- that’s right,” she said softly, her eyes flicking over Evelyn’s face before meeting John’s matching navy ones. “I wanted to do Romeo and Juliet, but Evelyn thought that was too mainstream.”

“Don’t you?” She laughed, clutching her gut as if she regretted the attempt at humor and catching Sherlock’s eye again as if to make a point. “I was thinking about doing Daniel Potter’s ‘ _Vatican Cameo’_ instead. It just has a far more substantial plot line and I really like the main character in it. She tries to save everyone from the wicked witch.”

John visibly straightened, yet Sherlock remained expressionless, save for the mask of fatherly concern he donned.

“Now, Eevee- you hold on just a mo-” John said just before Sherlock grabbed his hand and grinned brightly.

“Of course, darling.” He leaned in close to her and cupped her cheek as if to kiss her goodbye.

“ _We’ll find you_ ,” He whispered against her skin before he pulled away, his eyes flicking to the buildings surrounding them as if he were searching for a clue.

“Yeah,” she said plainly as if to start another sentence, but let the word hang in the air for a moment to make sure Sherlock understood her confidence in his abilities. “I’m sorry, I feel awful for calling everything off, but I really feel terrible.”

John immediately caught Sherlock’s aloof act and decided to play it out as best he could, “That’s fine, Eevee. Just go home and get some rest, okay? I’ll call you later tonight.”

She sniffed and clutched at her abdomen before nodded and favoring him a weak smile, “I love you.”

John stilled as if he hadn’t been expecting that and slowly regained his wits, “I… love you, too.”

She flicked her eyes up to the detective as if to say, “you, too, Dad,” and turned her attentions to her companion, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Hey- wait!” Jeremy called before Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, effectively ending his attempt to stop his friend.

Abigail allowed herself to be led away and shot each of the men surrounding them a quick smile before turning all the way around and facing her friend. She remained silent as she watched Evelyn’s expression lose all traces of illness as soon as they were out of sight of their male counterparts and she pursed her lips.

“What’s going on?” She asked sternly, making sure to keep her face as expressionless as possible.

Evelyn sighed, but remained silent for a bit longer as she silently congratulated herself on another Emmy-winning performance. _Perhaps if being a detective doesn’t work out for you, you can go into acting. Might make some good money that way!_

As they pulled around another corner, Evelyn pulled her to the side and met her eyes head-on, “Moran called me and threatened to kill everyone if I didn’t get you and myself away from them. I’m sorry. We’ll figure something out.”

“Moran has your number?” Abigail asked incredulously as her body tensed with adrenaline.

“Guess so,” she admitted, slipping her phone out of her pocket to check the time. “She called me from a blocked number so I can’t call her back. Now we just-”

Evelyn’s speech was interrupted by a quiet ringing in her back pocket and she fished the mobile up, scowling as the words _“Blocked Number”_ appeared on her screen again.

“Well I suppose that’s solved itself,” She flicked her eyes up to Abigail’s concerned expression before sliding it unlocked.

“Yes?”

There was a pause before the voice spoke again and its mechanical tone had dropped, leaving a rather low feminine voice, “ _You are an impressive actress.”_

Evelyn huffed a short laugh and smiled, “Yeah, thanks for that.”

She turned to her side, watching the rooftops before the voice spoke again, “ _But you’re not the_ only _one_.”

A fair brow cocked as she tried to decipher the meaning before she felt a damp cloth cover her nose and mouth and she dropped the mobile to the ground. Her gloved hands scrabbled at the fingers pressing against her full cheeks and a choked sob whispered from behind her.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail cried, and Evelyn could feel the dampness of her flushed cheeks press against the back of her neck. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

Navy eyes widened as she slightly inhaled to determine if her suspicions were correct.

 _Fuck,_ her mind supplied as the bitter chemical left a lingering taste on her tongue. _Think, think, think. Hold your breath!_

She pinched her eyes tight as her trainers scuffed against the asphalt and her gloved fingers gained no grip on Abigail’s strong hands.

“I’m _sorry_ , Evelyn,” Abigail sobbed softly, her dejection seeping into her words.

 _Oh Christ_ , Evelyn thought, weakly struggling as Carbon Dioxide began to overwhelm the Oxygen in her head. _How can I blame you for that? I’d do the same thing. It’s going to be okay. You can just hold on a little longer- just a little bit longer and she’ll give up_.

Evelyn’s eyes popped open and she attempted to look behind her, but only succeeded and tightening Abigail’s grip on her. _God, do you trust her to not actually hurt you? Fuck, fuck, fuck..._

“You’re just making this _worse,_ ” Abigail moaned with a dejected sniffle. “I’m just trying to keep my sister safe, please understand that, Evelyn. I- I- don’t want to… Oh _God!_ ”

The blonde girl’s shoes scuffed against the ground a bit as she continued to struggle but eventually her lungs decided to inhale without her permission.

 _Perhaps_ , she thought as she inhaled the bitter chemical and felt her world spin on its side, _perhaps you’ll be fine. Actually, you will be fine. Just believe you’ll be fine. You’ll get out of this somehow. You’re a Watson; you’re indestructible._

“I’m _so sorry_ ,” she heard echoed in her mind as her eyelids closed and her senses were consumed by numbness.

 _Well, there are certainly worse ways to go than martyrdom_ , she thought to herself as her world went black and the cloth continued to cover her nose and mouth. _I’m not going to be afraid._

 

_I’m not afraid._

 

***

 

“And what was that all about then?” John pressed as he watched his daughter lean against her companion and turn down another street out of their sight.

“There’s a gun on us,” Sherlock mumbled underneath his breath before gesturing to Jeremy and painted a façade of calm, “So Jeremy, how would you like being a part of this after all?”

The brunette boy jerked her head towards the detective, but his eyes still followed his friend’s footsteps, “I… Wait- sorry?”

Sherlock smiled and gripped the young man’s shoulder as his eyes flitted about the rooftops again, searching for anything that shouldn’t be there, “Your computer, I want to see if you can do something for me.”

“Um… yeah, yeah I guess so,” he mumbled, a feeling of uneasiness settling in his gut at Sherlock’s affectionate grip.

John took Sherlock’s hint of _get-the-children-out-of-harm’s-way_ and followed suit, “Good lad, come on then.”

Sherlock smiled and tilted his head, “Do you happen to know what an international mobile subscriber identity is, Jeremy?”

He nodded and pulled out his phone, “Yeah, it’s like a SIM card, but not. You can’t turn it off.”

“Very good. Now tell me what you know about it,” he said softly, eying John pointedly.

Jeremy began to list the characteristics of the IMSI, but neither John nor Sherlock paid him any mind. They watched each other carefully as well as the streets, looking for anything that even hinted as suspicious.

“So you can pretty much follow anyone, anywhere as long as you have that little number,” Jeremy finished after a while as he opened the door to a bookstore Sherlock lead them into.

“Yes, very nice,” Sherlock hummed, flicking his eyes to his mobile and then out of the window.

“Ok, cut the crap,” Michael announced as the door shut behind them. “What’s going on? You don’t _ever_ talk to us this much.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose at Michael’s allegations before John cut in, “Look, you’re both going to have to trust us. Something is wrong.”

Sherlock nodded curtly and turned to the taller of the two young men, “Jeremy, get out your computer. Hack into the mobile database and search for Abigail’s IMSI.”

“Wait- Abigail’s?” John pressed, cocking a brow.

Sherlock nodded and pinched his chin in thought, “Yes, Evelyn’s been taken and I suspect Abigail is going to have a hand in it- with or without her permission. Evelyn will lose her mobile soon, but Moran might not take Abigail’s away from her.”

Jeremy slipped the thin knapsack from his shoulder and immediately flipped up his screen, “And you let them just _walk away_? What the hell were you _thinking_?”

“Watch your tone, young man,” John commanded, earning him a soft glare from Evelyn’s best friend. “Evelyn would only leave like that if one of you were in mortal danger so have a little respect.”

The brunette was a bundle of nerves as he began to type in lines of code in the hopes of cracking into the database, “You realize the second she turns her phone off, we’ll lose her, right?”

“Then I suggest you stop arguing and do as you’re told,” Sherlock bit turning to John who seemed to be walking away. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To find Evelyn?” John suggested with a cocked brow as if it should have been obvious.

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock scowled, grabbing his arm. “We need to stay together. One casualty is enough.”

“ _Casualty?!_ ” John barked, jerking his arm from Sherlock’s grip. “Sherlock, I am not about to let our only daughter become a _casualty_!”

“John! That’s- look, that’s not what I-”

John waved him off and his cheeks flushed with irritation, “Don’t you _care_ -”

“Of course I _care_ , you _idiot!_ ” Sherlock hollered, gripping John’s wrist like a vice and lowering his gaze so as to not exhibit his expression. There was a moment of silence when John felt every eye in the store on his husband and he, and adrenaline flushed through his system. Suddenly there was a soft exhale and Sherlock’s hold on his wrist began to lax.

“Of course I care…” He said softly with a sigh, shaking his head as he narrowed his eyes pointedly. “That’s why I need you to stay. I can find her. I know I can, but I can’t lose you _both_.” He lifted verdigris eyes in a pleading manner, “ _Please_.”

John’s expression softened and he sighed. Sherlock _never_ said please. If he was saying it now, it was because he was finally becoming desperate enough to need John’s obedience.

“Alright,” he mumbled, flicking his eyes up then down nervously. “ _Please_ tell me you know what you’re doing, Sherlock.”

The detective thinned his lips and blatantly refused to raise his eyes to John’s which caused his golden heart to sink in his chest.

“That’s… that’s okay,” John admitted, slipping his hand into Sherlock’s, finally causing him to look up. “I… Whether or not it’s a good idea, I trust you.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a smiled before he squeezed John’s hand and finally released it, “Jeremy, have you gotten anywhere?”

The brunette boy flushed and furrowed his brow as he tapped along his keyboard, “Not yet. There’s just… so much…” He trailed off as he focused in on the computer screen, shutting everyone out of his mind as he worked.

“What can I do?” Michael asked, his skin sticky with nervous perspiration. “Please, I need to help or I’ll go mad.”

Sherlock thinned his lips and shook his head, “I don’t… Ah! Pull out your mobile. Give me any information you can find on Moran.”

“What if there’s nothing?”

“Then look _harder_ ,” Sherlock bit, his fingers resting on the bridge of his nose. _You can find her. It’s going to be all right. It’s just a game of chess; you put up your bishop so your queen can attack from the far side. It’s just the game. She doesn’t want Evelyn, anyways. She wants YOU._

“I’ll be right back,” John hummed, patting Sherlock’s forearm and causing the dark brow to jerk up.

“Just to the loo, promise,” John soothed, smiling at him and turning towards the back of the store. He rolled his eyes and grinned at Sherlock’s manic expression, “Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’ll be _fine._ ”

 

***

 

_Fuck, my head hurts…_

John inhaled and groaned, feeling the chilling sensation of linoleum beneath his cheek. His head swam and he had a time of trying to turn on his stomach so as to keep the food in his gut, “ _Aw, Christ.”_

“Morning, Daddy,” a bright voice chirped to his side and John groaned.

“Ev’lyn?”

“Yup,” she hummed, the whisper of cloth evident as she resituated her body about two or three meters away from him.

“Fuck,” John moaned, pinching his eyes tight and trying to force himself up on his elbows. _God, I hate barbiturates._

“It’s nice to see you, too,” Evelyn huffed and John could practically hear the eye roll before he opened his eyes to see her.

Indeed, she sat cross-legged on the linoleum about three meters from him, although she stayed without any real means of restraints.

“Are you all right?” John finally managed as he forced himself up with a groan, finding it difficult to sit up straight without toppling over on himself. He too, seemed free of any restraints on his hands or legs, and he furrowed his brow as he tried to figure out why.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Evelyn admitted, sighing as tucking her hair behind her ear. “Abigail-”

“Yeah, I know,” John interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck and scratching at the dab of dried blood on his throat. These stupid criminals were getting faster and far more efficient these days. He’d only had a second to fight back before the syringe had plunged into his throat at the back of the book store. It was hardly a real chance at all. _How hateful_. “Where is she?”

“Dunno,” Evelyn hummed, looking around. “I don’t know anything right now, I’ve just been sitting here. You’ve been out for a really long time.”

John hummed his derision and finally forced himself to his feet. He walked over to his daughter and extended his hand, “Well come on then. I’m sure we can-”

“Daddy! _Stop!_ ”

Before John could finish his sentence, a ripping hot sensation filled his throat and he jerked back onto his bum as he cried out. He scratched at his neck and found a thin black cord that he hadn’t noticed in his dazed state.

“Daddy! Are you all right?” Evelyn’s bell-toned voice called as John groaned on the ground, trying in vain to pull the collar from around his neck.

“Fucking- God- what the _hell?_!” John bit, grinding his teeth at Evelyn sighed.

“I’m sorry, I was going to tell you, but you got up too fast.” She rested her chin on her hand and leaned against her knee. “That’s why I’ve been sitting here. I can’t get it off.” She pointed in a vague area around her and frowned, “I marked my little box. I’ve got about a meter on any side of me.”

John finally forced himself back up with a cough and looked at the ground. Little scuff marks as if Evelyn had just dragged the side of her back shoe against the linoleum marked a six-by-six block around his daughter who proceeded to chew her lip.

“I don’t know how big your box is, but it’s not like a dog collar,” at John’s furrowed brow, she continued. “If you step outside the box, it doesn’t stop eventually. It keeps shocking you for as long as you’re out of it. I’ve tried.”

“Fuck,” John breathed without necessarily meaning to.

“My sentiments exactly,” Evelyn chuckled, running a hand through her hair and crinkling her nose. “Can’t say I’m upset with Abigail either. I want to be, but I’m not. I would have done the same thing if it was someone I cared about.”

John hummed his understanding and managed to get back onto his feet, wobbly as they were. He slowly paced back and forth in the square, jerking back as the collar on his neck shocked him as he encroached on the barrier.

“Six-by-Six,” he muttered, scuffing his shoe against the ground. "Same as yours.”

Evelyn smiled and shrugged, “At least it’s big enough to lie down in. And there are no ugly bars, so I suppose that’s nice.”

John smirked at his daughter’s optimism and looked around the room. He’d had a dream like this once. A huge room, filled with white light, bleaching every surface with its luminosity. It didn’t quite look like a warehouse, nor did it look quite like a factory, but it seemed larger than just a normal building if based off the singular room they inhabited. Garage maybe? No windows, but a single door was what decorated the room and it was on the wall facing both Evelyn and he.

“They took my watch, but I think we’ve been here- or well, at least I’ve been here- for about six hours,” she said softly, staring at her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I got that call and I didn’t-”

“It’s okay,” he soothed, inching as close to her as he was allowed in his little box. He extended his hand as Evelyn inched closer to her edge about a foot from his. As long as they stretched, John could grasp her hand and attempt to mollify his daughter through tactile means. “We’re gonna be okay. Dad will figure something out.”

Evelyn sighed and chewed her cheek, “I hope so. I just…”

“What?” John asked after a moment of vacant silence.

She hummed irately and frowned, “What is she going to do to him? It’s not like we can do anything to help.”

John exhaled as he looked around, desperately wanting to say something to soothe his daughter’s concerns and then had an idea, “Lift up your hair and turn about so I can see what it looks like.” She did as requested and John found that there was a little latch at the nape of her neck that if he put enough force into it, could possibly break.

He lifted his hand up to the back of his neck and felt the same notch in the plastic, adrenaline boiling in his chest, “Come here, let me see if I can get this off of you.”

“Daddy, I’ve already tried,” she complained, nonetheless fixing her hair up in a messy bun above her head with a hair-tie from her wrist.

“Oh ye of little faith,” John teased, reaching his arms towards his daughter and attempting to avoid either of their invisible boundaries. He smiled as he slipped his hand into his sock and pulled out a spare key he’d learned to hide there for the odd situation like this. While living with Sherlock Holmes, one certainly had to be prepared for anything.

“Well,” he hummed as he began to file away at the hard plastic on his daughter’s neck with the teeth of the key, “let’s see what we can do. Watsons don’t do well with staying idle, you know.”

 

***

 

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as he quietly padded through the halls of the old hospital set for demolition in a few months. The electricity was on, filling every hall and every room with bright white light. Abigail’s IMSI was last shown at this address before the bouncing little light on Jeremy’s computer was snuffed out.

Sherlock should have known that John was going to be taken too. Actually he _had_ known, and tried to keep the stupid doctor from going away but who was he to try and keep John Watson still? He ground his teeth as he thought about it. Now this blasted woman had _two_ hostages and he was only _one_ person. Certainly his life was not worth two others so he hated to think about the logistics of such an exchange until he was faced with that reality.

Well-cobbled shoes clicked against the hard floors as Sherlock quietly searched through the building for sign of life.

_It’s going to be fine. You’re going to find them and you’ll keep them safe. Then it will ALL be over, for GOOD._

His ears piqued at a soft inhalation far down the hall and he straightened himself, painting the façade of domineering calm over his pale skin.

“There are certainly far more pleasant venues to meet, Moran,” he called confidently into the air, holding his breath as he heard the slight whisper of clothes.

Down the hall a woman emerged, clad in all black attire, almost as if she were about to partake in a hit job. Her military boots padded down the hall and Sherlock took in her entire appearance. _Forty-five, straight black hair pulled in a military-fashioned bun. German descent in bone structure, but Italian descent in skin and hair._ Her face reminded him of a fox’s: long and slender and pulled tight to the sides over her cheekbones, producing a rather odd collaboration of characteristics.

“Sebastiana, I presume,” he said cordially, extending a hand to her as she walked closer. As she stood before him, she continued to keep her eye contact with the taller man and he sighed, retracting his hand. “Not very polite of a soldier, now is it?”

She didn’t seem to find any humor in his statement and instead narrowed her eyes, “What did he see in you?”

He cocked a dark brow and frowned, “Moriarty? Oh, come now. You’re not still thinking about him, are you?”

There was a clap in the hall and Sherlock’s expression was of sincere shock as he felt a black leather glove clap against his cheek. He raised his eyebrows to his hairline and hummed, “Well he certainly didn’t admire you for your patience.”

He suddenly felt a metal tube against his gut and sighed in exasperation, “Oh, how dull.”

“Move,” she commanded, her voice darker and deeper than Sherlock had anticipated.

He walked forward with the weapon still against his side and hummed. “The girl, Abigail? That was clever.”

Moran did not seem interested in conversation nor Sherlock’s faux-flattery so he rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be led into a room, dark save for the myriad of computer screens. She pointed to a seat in the middle of the room near a table and he walked over to it, perching on the edge of it while she sat across from him, barrel still aimed at his gut even as he sat down.

He flicked his eyes around the room and he thinned his lips, staring at the screens currently covered in swirling colors of screen savers.

“Is this the part where you make me an offer I can’t refuse and we go on with our merry lives?” He asked smarmily, raising a brow at her when she refused to respond. He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, acting as petulant as possible if only to irritate her further, “To answer your question, perhaps he fancied my boundless intellect and charming personality. I am quite the catch, you know.”

He jumped in his seat as a bullet was loosed from the barrel and careened through the air in front of his nose and into the wall to his side. He jerked his head and scowled, “Careful where you’re aiming that! You’ll take someone’s eye out!”

She didn’t seem fazed and continued to aim the smoking gun towards his temple as she studied him, her dark features seeming even more ominous in the darkness of the room, “You’re just so…”

“Charismatic? Brilliant?” Sherlock supplied as he attempted to figure out where his two tow-headed family members were hidden.

 _“Stupid._ ” She finally finished, earning her an exaggerated expression of shock from the ebony-haired man.

“I am many things, Moran,” he complained, catching her eye. “But _stupid_ is not one of them.”

There was a click beneath the table and Sherlock jerked his head forward as every computer screen flashed a white image on it, filling the dark room with glowing light. After his eyes finally began to adjust, he could make out the two forms on the screens and his stomach dropped.

He narrowed his eyes and saw his husband attempting to fasten something against his daughter’s neck, leaning abnormally away from her as he did so.

“Would you like to see them dance?” She hissed, the sound reminding Sherlock suspiciously of a snake slithering in the tall grass just before it finds a victim to consume whole.

“I don’t actually care to-”

His voice was cut off but another click beneath the table and suddenly the room was filled with sounds Sherlock had only heard in his nightmares.

Evelyn squealed clutching at her neck and fell forward towards the ground, her navy eyes pinched tight with pain and it broke Sherlock’s heart. John jerked back and- uncharacteristically-  away from their daughter, clutching at his neck, too; his entire body jerking as he seethed.

Electric collars, Sherlock surmised as he finally saw the black bands around their throats.

“ _Fuck!”_ He heard John call out as the electricity continued to vibrate against his throat and Sherlock’s ground his teeth.

“You’ve made your point quite vividly,” he bit sourly, scowling at the impasse woman to his side. “Enough.”

She seemed to flick off something beneath the table again and the hollering over computer speakers began to subside.

There was a pitiful moan from his daughter and John coughed before he finally made it back up to his knees, “ _Evelyn, sweetheart, are you all right? Evelyn!”_

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, John didn’t actually _go_ to her, instead sitting in his spot a meter or so away from her as she flinched on the ground, clutching at her chest.

“ _Daddy… My chest hurts,_ ” she whined, the sound barely making it over the computer speakers and John exhaled sharply holding at his hand to grab at hers.

 _“I know, love. You’re okay, just relax,”_ he soothed as Evelyn finally turned over and grabbed at his hand weakly. “ _We’re gonna be okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I thought that would work.”_

 _“It’s okay,_ ” she replied softly, pinching her eyes tight and sighing against the ground.

“What do you want?” Sherlock finally asked after he quelled the rage in his gut down to a minimum roar. “Money? Drugs? No… You’re far too mad for either of those.”

“Who said I wanted anything in return?” She hummed, her face showing the first expression it had since he’d met her: a sharp, cruel smile.

“I suppose that’s true,” Sherlock sighed, trying his best not to instigate another electric attack on his family. He decided to try another route and crossed his leg over his knee and rested his palms there, “In Ukraine, when I shot that man down… Who was that?”

She suddenly scowled and screaming filled the air again as she pressed down on the clicker in her palms. Sherlock’s heart stopped in his chest and he stammered, “T-touchy subject, I suppose.”

“One shouldn’t stick their abnormally large nose where it doesn’t belong,” she snapped, watching with sadistic pleasure as the two blonde beings writhed and cried out on the screen.

“ _Alright!_ ” Sherlock bit, flicking his eyes to the screen as John began to get to his knees again and yank at the collar.

“ _What the fuck do you want?”_ He hollered, choking on every syllable as the shock collar pulsed against his throat. “ _The girl hasn’t done anything wrong! Leave her be!”_

Moran clicked against her palm again and the high-pitched vibrations ceased, leaving the two Watsons panting and cursing underneath their breath.

“You know what’s interesting about shock collars?” Moran hummed, sliding to her feet and smiling as she padded across the room. “They control. They _consume_. When you’ve got one on, all you can think about is the _pain_.”

“It’s no surprise you and Moriarty got along so well,” Sherlock said softly, watching with a wary eye as she crossed him. He crinkled his nose and sniffed, “You were discharged. Why?”

Moran only smiled and toyed with the firearm in her grip, “I like guns.”

“I can see that,” he mumbled sarcastically, earning him a glare.

“I like guns and I especially like what they _do_ ,” she hissed, flicking the weapon towards Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock twitched his brow before he dared another question, “Moriarty’s brother… Why did you work with him?”

Moran groaned and the detective almost laughed at the adolescent sound, “God he was such an _idiot_. He was all about the show, but had no idea how to get what he wanted. Fucking pathetic piece of shit he was.”

“Well he served his purpose well enough, I suppose,” Sherlock suggested, the corner of his eye catching John attempted to work the collar off of their daughter again as she panted on the ground.

“He did,” she agreed with a shrug. “Made you panic.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose, _“Well_ , panic isn’t the word _I’d_ use.”

Moran rolled her eyes and looked back at the screen, “You know, what he lacked in intellect, he made up for in brutality. He always loved the idea of watching your heart burn before you; he wanted to see the fire in your eyes as you inhaled the burning flesh of it.”

“How… _poetic_ ,” Sherlock sniffed, watching as Moran began to toy with a controller near the set of computer screens.

“Why drag this out?” She hummed, toying with the toggle. “We both know why you’re here and we both know what’s going to happen.”

“You’re going to play with your toys and then I am going to kill you,” Sherlock suddenly snarled, lifting his lip as he began to stand.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Moran vocalized, wagging her finger. “I suggest you play nice… For _their_ sakes.” She suddenly flicked the toggle back and smiled. Sherlock’s eyes darted over the screen and he furrowed his brow as nothing immediately happened.

Just then, John cursed and let go of Evelyn’s neck, looking at a viscous black liquid that began to seep from one end of the room towards them, _“Fuck- what is that?”_

Evelyn perched on her knees and Sherlock could see her narrow her eyes, “ _Daddy… I think it’s…”_

“ _Shit…_ ” John mumbled with barely a breath as he jerked his hands back to Evelyn, “Come on, I’ve almost got this off of you. We’ll need to be able to move if we want to get out of here alive.”

Moran smiled and played with the clicker in her hand, “Every good gun needs a bit of oil, doesn’t it?”

“You’re insane,” Sherlock breathed, watching her dark eyes light up with madness that reminded him of their late acquaintance.

“Oh yes, but let me tell you- all the best people are,” She smiled wryly, flicking on the clicker and causing the two Watsons to cry out on the screen again. “You know, I hope you enjoy this. I had to watch you take my family… Now you get to watch me take yours… Poetic, isn’t it?”

Sherlock watched as his husband began to force himself up and work on Evelyn’s neck even as his own was being attacked and his chest warmed with affection and awe at John’s determination. Suddenly the doctor cried out as he ripped the piece or torture equipment from Evelyn’s neck and she sat up, coughing and clutching at her throat.

“Oh, well what a pity,” Moran commented as she heard Evelyn holler for her father. “I thought that would last just a _tad_ longer.” She jerked back as Sherlock was suddenly in her face and his hands battled for the gun within her grip.

She smiled as she jerked the gun back and immediately aimed it at his heart before he pulled the trigger and hot lead filled the air before he pounded into Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock stilled for a moment and exhaled sharply, looking down in astonishment that he’d actually been hit.

“Oh, before you go,” she chirped, playing with an additional toggle before she grinned wide and toothy.  “When you get to hell, tell the king I said ‘Hi!’.”

With that, she flicked the toggle and what black liquid there was in the room suddenly caught ablaze; turning the white room into the very furnace of Hades, red and yellow biting up in the air.

Evelyn screamed and his heart leadened with the terrible sound. He stood for a moment longer and Moran began to unsettle, waving the gun in the air towards him, “Go on! _Die already!”_

She then aimed her weapon for his sternum and let another two bullets loose, grinning as she watched him fall back and hit the ground with a sickening thud.

She stepped forward and peered over him until something nagged in her mind and she frowned. There was no… _blood._

She suddenly found herself on her back, the gun once again being tugged from her grip. She finally noticed the bits of silver sticking out from the heavy coat and growled at her stupidity for not taking a bloody head-shot when she could have.

He straddled her to the ground and finally ripped the firearm from her hand, jerking it beneath her jaw, “You will tell me where my family is.”

She grinned and Sherlock smacked the back of the weapon against her cheek, painting her teeth pink with frustration, “ _NOW!”_

She grinned and welled up saliva and blood on her tongue before she spat it at the detective’s face. He snarled and aimed the mouth of the barrel at her hip, “I will shoot you and it will take you minutes to bleed out. It will be _agonizing_ and I swear to God I will make it last for as _long_ as possible. I will keep you conscious as every bit of blood pulses from your deplorable body and I will revel in your pain. _Tell me_ where they are!”

She grinned, blood from a broken tooth dripping from her mouth, “How does it feel? To have your heart burned right before your eyes?”

His eyes jerked up to the screen as Evelyn screamed and he caught a glimpse of her trying to pull John to his feet, “ _Daddy! Daddy, we’ve got to move! Daddy!”_

Fire crept slowly towards them as the oil slicked across the ground and it began to encircle them as Evelyn managed to get John up and moving backwards- unwittingly away from the door.

“ _Tell me!_ ” Sherlock snapped, jerking the barrel  against her abdomen and readying his finger on the trigger.

Moran jerked a hand against his own and maneuvered the gun around his finger so that the last bullet she had in the weapon discharged directly into her diaphragm. She cried out but after a moment the cry became a laugh and Sherlock’s blood ran cool with the madness that lay beneath him.

“See you… in Hell,” she hissed, watching as Sherlock’s eyes grew wide with fear and he jerked up from over her and to his feet. He hadn’t anticipated that. God! Why didn’t he ever anticipate people taking their own lives? That seemed like such an obvious thing and yet he never accounted for it. Christ, he was an idiot!

There was suddenly as shuffle at the door and Sherlock raised the useless gun as it opened and a familiar dark head crept in.

“Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and continued to aim the weapon at the young lady.

“Mr. Holmes, I know you’re really upset, but he have to _hurry_!” She pleaded, running towards him, her hands up in a placating manner.

“ _Oh my God_!” She squealed as she finally got close enough to catch a glimpse of the twitching body on the floor and her tan face paled to a ghostly white. “Oh my God! Oh my God, you- oh my God, she’s dead!”

“Not quite,” he said plainly, jerking the weapon towards Abigail. She covered her mouth and shook her head.

“Oh my God- she’s bleeding- that’s blood- oh Christ that’s a _lot_ of blood.”

She then caught a glimpse of the screen and gasped, “Oh my God! Evelyn! Holy shit, what’s going on?”

“You tell me,” Sherlock demanded softly, his tone growing darker and more hateful with every word. “You kidnapped my daughter.”

Abigail shook her head and frowned, “No! Please, please, I didn’t want to. I had to- now please- I’m trying to _help_!”

She jerked a hand out and exposed an empty syringe, “It’s what those men used on your husband. Moran left me tied up in her get-away car and she left this so she could use it on you if you survived. I used it on the guards down the hall. Please, I’m trying to help, I know you don’t trust me- but right now you don’t have a _choice_!”

Sherlock chewed his lip and finally succumb to his nerves as Evelyn screamed over the computer speakers again, “Where are they?”

Abigail shook her head but grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tore out of the room, “I don’t know, but I have a good idea.”

 

***

 

John’s head swam with all of the awful sensations his poor body was being subjected to. He couldn’t actually breath for the smoke of the burning oil was thick and heavy in his lungs and every thought he had was focused on the shocking sensation against his throat.

“I’ve almost… got it…” Evelyn hummed as she raked the dulled key against the hard plastic until… finally…

“Ah-ha!” She jerked the awful collar off of his neck and John collapsed on the ground in relief, clutching at his throat and coughing as his mind finally became his own again.

“Daddy!” Evelyn squealed, pulling at John’s body as a small trail of oil began to creep near his dazed face.

The room was sweltering and Evelyn could feel the fire’s heat licking up at her cheeks and arms, biting into her pale skin with a vehement drive, “Daddy! We have to get out of here!”

John groaned as he allowed Evelyn to pull him wearily to his feet and drape an arm over her shoulder, “Oh Christ, Daddy! What are we gonna do?”

John coughed and tenderly rubbed at his throat as he looked around, “We’re all right, love. Just don’t panic.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” she hummed wiping sweat from her brow at the immense heat that filled.

“Get _down!_ ” He hollered as he caught a glimpse of flames flicking up the walls of the white room and heading towards the ceiling.

The two dropped to their knees and John covered his daughter with his arms as a section of ceiling fell into the room, splashing fire around as it landed.

“ _Fuck_!” John cried out as a bit landed on his jacket and began to smolder into an actual flame. He jerked back away from Evelyn as he patted his hand on it to put it out just as a line of oil slipped between them; separating the two with a thin wall of fire.

“ _Daddy!_ ” Evelyn cried out and John reached out for her before the flames licked at his arms and he was forced to pull back.

“Darling, you’re going to be all right,” he called out, catching a glimpse of his daughter just before flames stretched for the ceiling. “Just keep low and don’t let the oil touch you. I’ll get you out of here, just don’t panic!”

Thick, acrid smoke began to fill the room and obstruct his vision with opaque clouds and he sputtered, trying to wave them away. Crackling filled John’s ears as he stood to his feet and backed away from the inferno that was biting up into the ceiling as it spread. He looked up and it was a perfect example of what he assumed Hell would look like in person: the ceiling was engulfed in red and yellow flames that hissed and popped angrily at his very presence and heat poured towards him in waves.

“Evelyn! Can you still hear me?” He called out, his navy eyes searching for either his daughter or an exit; neither of which was forthcoming.

“I’m over here!” She cried, sounding like she was being pressed against something. She began to cough violently and then John’s heart dropped with a shrill squeal. “Daddy! Daddy, it’s everywhere! Oh my God, I can’t breathe! Can you see the door?”

John shook his head as he spun around and found himself surrounded by raging fire that threatened their very lives.

“Evelyn, just stay calm- I’ll- I’ll figure out something!” He hollered back, spinning around, trying for everything he was worth to find something he could use to help out their predicament.

“I’ll- Christ,” he breathed as smoke filled his lungs and he choked.

 

“I’ll think of something…”

 


	34. Hell Hath No Fury

“They should _be_ here!” Abigail cried as she ripped open several of the myriad of doors down the hallway; her dark eyes wide with panic. “This is where she brought me this afternoon! I don’t _understand_!”

Sherlock suddenly snapped at her shoulders and jerked her against the wall, “ _Think_! Where else would she take them?”

Abigail obviously was still hyper-sensitive about being touched and writhed in Sherlock’s grip, “I- I don’t know! This was where they were supposed to be!”

“Well they’re obviously-!” He cut himself off as he felt strange heat underneath his shoe as if he were standing on sun-warmed asphalt. He jerked down to his knees and relieved himself of his gloves to press his palms against the ground finding that unnatural warmth steamed against his hands and he smiled, “They’re right underneath us!”

He jerked back to his feet and took off down the hall to where he knew the emergency stairwell would be and began to descend, leaving Abigail behind without a second thought.

He slammed the door open into the hallway and was greeted with a thin layer of smoke that seemed to be pulsing from a door halfway down the hall. He was there within the half-second and jiggled at the door knob that was locked from the inside. Surprisingly enough, the door was not one of wood or even hard-plastic, but one of metal that seemed impenetrable sans key. Sherlock banged his hands against the metal surface in frustration and called out, “John! Evelyn! Can you hear me?”

He pressed his ear against the hot door, feeling it burn against his cheeks as he listened for any signs of life.

There was a weak cough and to his delight, John’s cracked voice answered him, “ _Sherlock? Sherlock we’re in here!”_

“Well I figured _that_ much,” he snapped, toying with the handle. “John! I need a key! The lock isn’t standard- it looks as if it’s been added after market. I don’t know, it looks like something old-fashioned… wait! Where’s Evelyn?”

“ _Dad?”_ Came the weak reply, followed by a cough that broke Sherlock’s heart as it echoed in the roaring room.

“Evelyn, love! The key! The one around your neck!” He commanded, playing with the brass handle that fitted the steel door. “Please tell me you’ve yet to overcome your compulsion to wear it!”

He waited for a moment before he heard the snap of a chain and another heavy cough, “ _Dad, I have it, but I can’t see the door!”_

Sherlock’s ears piqued at the scuff of shoes as Abigail finally joined him, but he remained invested in the door, “Follow my voice! Come this way! Just keep following my voice, love. I’ll get you out of there!”

“ _Evelyn! I can see it, come over here!”_ John called, Sherlock’s heart practically bouncing in his throat as he listened to the exchange.

There was a light _chink_ of metal as if the chain was being thrown across the room and then Sherlock heard John’s voice boom over the crackling of the flames, _“Sherlock! I’m tossing at the bottom of the door. Watch for it!”_

Sherlock waited with baited breath as he heard the doctor’s grunt of exertion and then a bright yellow object slid from the inch between floor and door. Sherlock dropped to his knees to grab it, but found that it was covered in fire that dripped and oozed around it as the oil slipped from the metal. He slipped his glove from his pocket and covered it completely; suffocating the flame in order to pick it up.

 _Let it never be said Moriarty didn’t have a knack for fighting somewhat fair,_ he thought as he slipped the key in. Dramatic as it was, Moriarty allowed them a single reprieve- a single way to win and histrionic as it seemed, Sherlock certainly thanked his lucky stars for the madman’s lust for games and tricks. Who would _actually_ keep a key for half a decade- much less, on their _person_ besides his obsessive-compulsive daughter? What luck!

He slipped the key into the lock and had to maneuver it around a bit before it finally clicked open. Immediately, flames burst out of the doorway towards him as he opened it and Abigail squeaked at his side. He jerked back, covering his face with his long coat as the flames quieted to a dull roar and he could look into the burning room. He could just barely see a silhouette of a female in the far right side of the room, crouching in a corner as flames began to surround her on every side. On the other side of the furnace was a man, leaning against a wall that had succeeded in abstaining from the temptation of fire long enough for Sherlock to arrive.

He held his breath as there was a shrill holler and Evelyn’s voice squeaked, “Oh my God! It’s on me! It won’t go out! Oh my God!” Her voice was suddenly drowned out in a series of vicious coughing spells that echoed in the crackling of the fire.

“You’re okay, sweetheart!” John called, his shadow dancing about as if he were avoiding the flames himself. “Don’t panic, we’ll get you out of there!”

“John!” The detective called out as he slipped out of his heavy overcoat and raised his hands to his face against the intense aura that the room emanated.

The silhouette on his left suddenly hollered, not at him, but at the dark figure on the opposite side of the room, “Evelyn! No, no, no; Evelyn, get up!” The words barely escaped his lips before he, too, succumb to a fit of raucous coughing; his form shrinking as he curled in on himself.

True to his word, the young woman had slumped to the ground and Sherlock could just barely see her over the vicious flames that consumed most of the room, “Evelyn!”

He turned to his side and hollered at the young brunette, “Stay right here. Whatever you do, don’t touch the ground.” At her silence obedience, he jerked into the flames, with his arms shielding in front of his face.

 _The very depths of Hell are probably cooler than this_ , he surmised as wave after wave of the solar flares whipped at him very every angle. He could feel the flames lapping at his trousers and shoes, but with every other step, he managed to avoid the oil that covered the ground and finally knelt in front of their daughter, his scarf pressed against his mouth and nose.

“Sweetheart,” he mumbled, patting her flushed cheek with his free hand. “Wake up! Come on, love!”

She made no effort to respond to his begging besides to cough lightly, her entire body curled on itself despite the raging heat that surrounded them.

“Oh for God’s sakes!” He hollered, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her upright, finding with no limitless frustration that her legs refused to bear her weight and her form slumped forward into him. He dipped down slightly and let the scarf fall from his face as he tried to pick her up and carry her as he had done a thousand times before in his younger days. Adrenaline seeped through his system and although he knew the effects would not last, he found that for the moment being, he could lift her in his embrace.

“Come on, little bird,” he hummed between coughs; his cheeks flushing with the heat that engulfed their surroundings. “You’ll be all right; just stay with me.”

He danced around the pools of flames; watching warily as the inferno waved and ebbed like a tide of liquid sun and gripping the motionless girl in his arms. His lungs burned with acrid smoke and his throat felt as if he was drinking up the flames like a tonic as he finally pushed through the fire and practically fell back out into the hall with his daughter slipping onto the ground.

Suddenly, she was tugged from his grip as Abigail began to pat at her golden hair with a gasp. Much to Sherlock’s chagrin, light flames licked up the curls towards her scalp and he had been none the wiser. The American palmed out the fire and tilted her head to Evelyn’s mouth as she looked at Sherlock with an expression of sheer urgency.

“She’s breathing!” She hollered, flicking an eye up to Sherlock. “Go get Dr. Watson, I’ll see if I can-”

Her second sentence went unheard as Sherlock jerked himself back into the inferno towards the sounds of violent hacking on the other side of the room, “John!”

“Sher-” came the reply, overcome with coughing as Sherlock bounced between the flames and found himself gripping John’s shoulders.

He coughed and sputtered, but managed to slip his deep navy scarf from his neck and hold it to John’s face- for what good it would do at that point- and pulled him back towards the doorway, “Come on!”

His hacking doctor leaned heavily on his shoulder as they attempted to traverse through the blaze and Sherlock was mildly concerned he would collapse before the doorway was breached.

“Sherlock!” A familiar voice called from the door that Sherlock could barely see through the flames.

 _Mycroft_ , Sherlock thanked whatever deity might be that the boys his daughter had chosen for companions had been of such a sound mind as to make sure his older brother was sent the coordinates of their personal Hell when the thought _honestly_ hadn’t crossed his mind.

“Sherlock, follow my voice!” His brother called, seeming to dance in the doorway as if debating going into the inferno himself. “Keep coming this way!”

“Sher-” John mumbled before slumping into Sherlock’s shoulder with a cough. “I can’t- I can’t _see_.”

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock soothed, gripping his husband closer to his chest. “I’ve got you.”

The room seemed to stretch on for miles as Sherlock dragged his companion towards the exit and every muscle in his body ached with the exertion while his lungs burned with a need for oxygen that was fervently consumed by the flames the lapped at his ankles. Ebony curls bounced as he coughed in the thick, oily smoke and he groaned as John’s form began to slump against his own, slowing their already sluggish progress.

“John, you _idiot_ , get up!” He hollered, jerking against John’s shoulders as he coughed into fabric of his jacket. “John, you must get up!”

His heart pounded in his chest as if it were trying to beat its way out of the cage of his rib bones and he jerked his head up as he heard the room groaning around them. Sections of the ceiling were now consumed by hot and heavy flames that burned in on themselves; sending waves of heat pouring in every direction. But that wasn’t what Sherlock focused his silver eyes on: it was the bowing of the actual frame that warned of its impending collapse with every groan of metal and every crackle of the vicious flames.

“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself, watching as the frame began to crack underneath the weight of the flames and he was given less than three seconds to make a decision.

 _You’re less than three meters away from the door; with John’s added weight it’s impossible for you to drag him before the roof caves in. Theoretically you could- NO. No, that’s not an option. But wait- based off of the angle of where we stand as opposed to the door I could- that’s it. Force times mass… With the right trajectory… it should work! Dear God, let me be right_.

“Mycroft!” He hollered, wrapping his arms around John’s smaller frame and keeping his eye on the bowing ceiling. “Mycroft, I-”

He cut himself off with a yelp as a small section of the ceiling panels crashed to the ground behind him and sent oiled flames licking up his trousers. He pinched his face in pain as he pressed his lips to John’s short hair. _Oh God, here goes nothing_.

Sherlock tensed every muscle in his body as he did his best to lift the man slowly losing consciousness beside him and with a mighty thrust, he tossed him towards the doorway, sending himself falling backwards with the momentum.

Mycroft scowled as he watched his brother’s actions and his iced heart pounded in his chest, “Sherlock! Sherlock, you _idiot_!” His face flushed as he jerked into the fire but was greeted with his brother-in-law’s form sliding across the ground and into a puddle of the oiled flames just before the doorway.

“Oh God,” he mumbled, grabbing John’s wrist and dragging him into the hallway, jerking Sherlock’s jacket from where it lay on the ground and draping it over John’s form wherever the fire bit at his skin and clothes. He jerked his pale blue eyes up and just barely caught his little brother’s expression of honest _terror_ and for a moment, their eyes met: silver on blue- and Mycroft could feel the connection he’d once shared with his brother as children hum like a violin string pulled too tight. In their meeting of gazes Sherlock’s expression only whispered one thing as he let his façade of indifference fall and allowed his brother to see the authentic heart beneath the icy mask: _Brother, I’m scared._

Ebony hair jerked as he lifted his gaze and Mycroft watched in horror as the suit-clad arms lifted to shield his face and his body cowered towards the ground as the burning panels of the ceiling collapsed from their metal frames; whining and crackling as they plummeted to the floor, perpetually hiding Sherlock from view.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled, hoping that perhaps the panels had fallen in _front_ of him instead of _on_ him. “ _Sherlock,_ for God’s sake _!”_

John began to cough underneath Mycroft’s hands and he jerked his gaze down, noticing the slight burns on the doctor’s skin around his neck and shoulder and the soot that covered his face. Navy eyes flickered open and the doctor began to groan and fuss as he tried to pick himself up, “Sh’lock?”

Mycroft said nothing, but continued to stare into the inferno that consumed the room, searching for any signs of life as a group of his agents, clad in fireproof uniforms clamored into the hallway to their side.

John’s cognizance finally emerged and he grasped what had occurred with a sinking feeling in his gut, “Sherlock! Sherlock, what have you _done_?”

He groaned as he forced himself up and found with Mycroft shot him a dejected stare as he gripped his shoulder, forcing him to stay put.

“Let me go!” He hollered, his bereavement echoing in his cry. “Sherlock!”

There was a light moan and he jerked his head to see his daughter half-lying in the American girl’s lap as she coughed her way back to consciousness. She, too, only needed a moment to realize what had happened before she gawkily found her way to her feet and ran towards the door, regardless of the immense heat that poured out and burned her, “Dad! _Dad!”_

Mycroft jumped to his feet and wrapped long arms around the heaving chest as Evelyn’s screams slipped into sobs and her knees buckled beneath her frame, “ _Dad_!” He hugged her to his chest and watched silently as a few of the men and women he hired stepped into the burning room and began to spray it down with chemical extinguishers.

Just before anyone could actually step farther than the doorway, however, the ground creaked and cracked and the agents jerked back out into the hallway as the floor began to crumble underneath the intense heat of the fire that destroyed its very foundation.

Linoleum whined and ripped as sections of the floor began to give out and Mycroft’s heart sank into his shoes as he watched the flames fall down into the floor below and the heat was suddenly sucked away from the doorframe.

“ _Dad_!” The girl in his arms screamed, struggling with what little fight she had left in her body against his strong grip. “Uncle My, let me _go_! _Dad!”_

“Evelyn,” the American hummed, quietly setting herself at Mycroft’s side and petting a hand over Evelyn’s singed hair. “Evelyn, you’re all right. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Fuck you!” The blonde suddenly barked, squirming in Mycroft’s grip. She beat her shoes against the ground in frustration and her screams fell into miserable sobs. “Just fuck- _Dad!_ ”

One fire-proof-clad agent began to spray foam around the doorway of the room before them as the others fled into the stairwell, presumably to finish the job in the floor below.

Mycroft watched wearily as John scrambled to his feet and gawkily stumbled towards the stairs. He exhaled shakily and ran a hand over the hair of the seething girl in his arms and mumbled, “I’ve got you, little one. You’re going to be all right.”

John’s shoes didn’t quite feel like they were making contact with the stairs as he half-fell down the single flight into the hallway below and as he caught a glimpse of the foam suffocating the flames that had so viciously attacked his entire family, he felt bile creep up in his throat and threaten to color the floor if he didn’t focus on holding it down. He jerked into the room, shock and horror singing through his veins as he took in the vast sight of demolished ceiling and floor all scorched and reeking of burning chemicals. He slipped over some of the dry-wall panels and had to clamor to his feet again in order to get past Mycroft’s agents.

“Sherlock!” He cried, using what little strength he had left to pull up some of the debris as he searched for the ebony-topped detective. “Sherlock, answer me!”

He coughed with the remnants of smoke in the air and wiped at his watering eyes as he rifled through the rubble until something caught his eye.

“Sherlock?” He whispered, cutting his hands on the debris as the silver sparkle reflected in the meager light from the hallway. “Sherlock!”

John slipped and practically crawled over rubble and destruction as the silver ring he’d placed on that finger so many years ago gleamed like a beacon that drew him to the detective’s hidden form. The single pale hand was crumpled and just barely stuck out of a pile of burned panels, but John gripped at it like the single lifeline that kept him tethered to reality before he jerked the debris from his husband’s body- _Not body. He’s not dead. Not a body._

He groaned as he rolled a large panel off of Sherlock’s torso, freeing his face and chest from the confines of destruction and John patted the bruised cheek covered in soot, “Sherlock? Sherlock, love- wake up.”

Sherlock’s lower extremities remained hidden as John pressed his burned fingertips to the long, pale throat and held his breath as he waited for the thrum of the golden heartbeat he knew was there. With his other hand, he raked back the dusty hair and pressed his lips to the soot-covered forehead, “Come on, Sherlock. Wake up. _Please_ , wake up.”

John pulled his hand back from the wet fringe and nearly choked at the crimson that painted his palm, “No. No, no, no. Sherlock, come on.” Silver eyes refused to open and John swallowed a weak sob as the pulse against his fingertips began to slow. Navy eyes creased and warm saline began to slip down his damaged cheeks until it dripped onto his lover’s dirty skin, “Sherlock, please. I’m _begging_ you. Wake up. Don’t do this to me again. Please, I won’t… Don’t take it all away again. Not like this, you great idiot. _Please._ ”

John shifted on his legs and freed Sherlock’s entire body from the confines of the debris, taking in the disturbingly unnatural bend of his left leg and watching with sincere horror as the thin chest began to expand less frequently until a soft groan escaped the detective’s lips.

“Sherlock?” John breathed, not daring to believe it true.

The detective’s brow creased with pain and his chest heaved with a soft cough that caused him to grind his teeth and John smiled at his suddenly wondrous fortune.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, gripping Sherlock’s face in his palms and kissing the full lips, cracked with heat. “Sherlock, you bastard! What did you do-?”

Sherlock cried out as John attempted to pull him from the rubble and he jerked his hands back; furrowing his brow before he finally made the connection, “Oh fuck… Hey! Hey, I need a stabilizing board!” He hollered at the men and women who were finally snuffing out the last of the flames on the far side of the room. Two of them hurried out into the hall and John turned his attention back to his husband, “You’re going to be _fine_ , Sherlock, for what kind of an idiot you are. You wonderfully mad man.”

The detective’s face showed no expression besides delirious pain and his head nodded against the ground, groaning.

 “Shhh, Sherlock,” he hummed, running a hand over the dirty curls as his lover kept his eyes closed, careful to avoid the cut he couldn’t quite see for the darkness of his hair. “Shhh, you’re okay. I’ve got you, just stay still. I love you, Sherlock.”

A reply was never forthcoming as Sherlock hacked into John’s palm, an unsettling scarlet splashing against his dirty skin. John’s eyes widened with realization and he jerked his head back to Mycroft’s agents, “He needs a hospital _immediately_! Tell me _someone_ here has something to help me with!”

“John!” Mycroft bellowed as he entered the room, Evelyn at his side, as his three-piece suit crumpled as he climbed over the varying mountains of debris until the group was again joined around Sherlock’s broken form.

“Dad!” Evelyn cried out, her fingertips raking over the dark curls and pressing against his cheek as he resolved to stay motionless and silent. “Dad, you’re gonna be all right. You- God, you-”

She leaned into Mycroft’s chest who gripped her tenderly, his soft blue eyes darting over his little brother. A large pale hand flattened the dirty fringe and his voice was soft velvet as he hummed quietly, more to himself than to anyone present, “ _Petit frère, le retour. Votre famille a besoin de vous.”_

John didn’t need to understand the foreign language to recognize Mycroft’s quiet concern and he unconsciously rested a bloody palm on the elder Holmes’ shoulder.

Before another moment had passed, a pair of EMT’s- a young man and a young woman- carrying a stretcher appeared and carefully nudged the Baker Street family away from their broken member, who spoke no more comforting sounds besides the labored wheezing of damaged lungs as he was carried away.

John coughed into his sleeve, finally noticing spots of the fabric that had been burned away and his bare skin that had been bitten by the flames. He turned to his side and extended his hand to the blonde girl he called his own who seemed not to want to take his hand.

“Evelyn, are you all right?” He pressed, gently tracing a thumb over her cheek as she stared at her hands.

She sighed and extended the pale palms for John’s examination and he gasped as he caught a glimpse of the damaged skin.

Red flesh glistened and was surrounded by marred skin and Evelyn chewed her cheek, “Could be worse.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he fussed, gently grabbing the back of her hands to examine the broken skin and hissing through his teeth. “You’ll be all right. We just need to get you patched up.”

She smiled weakly and nodded at John’s neck, “You, too. You’re bleeding.”

Stupidly, he placed his hand at his throat and hissed as his dirty palm came into contact with the open flesh at his collar, “ _Fuck_.”

Mycroft rose to his feet and silently followed the paramedics to the hallway as Evelyn began to cough into his arms.

“I’m fine!” She hacked, pinching her eyes closed. “I just-”

John rested a hand at her cheek as she slumped forward, coughing, and began to lift her by her elbow, “Come on, love.”

She leaned against her father as he eased her from the demolished room and towards the hallway. She whined slightly as she held her damaged hands close to her chest and suddenly she began to tremble, causing John to glance down.

“Darling, what is it?”

Evelyn smiled, but shook her head as if she wasn’t quite sure which emotion she was trying to convey, “I- I don’t know.” Laughing nervously, she wrapped her arms tight around her torso, without allowing her palms to tough anything.

“Eevee, you’re shaking,” John pressed, stopping as they finally made it out into the lit hall and he could catalogue her scrapes and bruises. Thankfully, her face and neck were relatively unscathed, but her forearms and hands weren’t as lucky. She’d most certainly gain webbed scars from this incident and would have a terribly difficult time experimenting until they healed correctly. _How on Earth would he keep her entertained till then?_ Her jaw trembled and she shrugged, finding that her knees were practically knocking against one another.

“I kn-know. I don’t know why. I’m cold.”

 _Where’s a bloody shock blanket when you need one?_ John asked himself as he pulled his jacket off of his shoulders gently draped it over his daughter’s, pressing his lips to her temple in a comforting manner.

“I love you so much,” he mumbled against her skin. “You were so brave.”

His words took an unintended interpretation and Evelyn flushed with irritation, “I just screamed like a child and fainted. Hardly very courageous if you ask me.”

John smiled and ruffled the singed curls gently, “Not even the strongest man in the world can escape smoke, Evelyn. Trust me, you were very brave, little one. We couldn’t have made it out without you.”

His intended reaction never quite took place and Evelyn sighed, leaning into her father, “Is Dad going to be okay?”

John smiled and pressed tenderly at the small of Evelyn’s back, urging her towards the exit, “Your father is the most stubborn man on the face of the planet. He’ll be fine.”

 _I hope_ , went unsaid.

 

***

 

Evelyn sighed as she tapped away on her mobile and brought up the front-facing camera.

Her wonderful, golden locks were now short curls that dangled messily near her jawline and for some reason, the lack of comforting weight unsettled her chest. Her entire life she’d had fair hair that cascaded down to her shoulder blades, but the fire that had almost taken her life had consumed most of it until she was forced to cut off the singed ends by her own hand. Evelyn couldn’t claim to be vain in very many senses, but her sandy curls had always been something she’d been proud of and now it was little more than yellow frizz. _How hateful._

“I think you look fine,” came a small voice to her side.

Evelyn looked down and caught a glimpse of Abigail’s attempted half-smile and twitched her lips back in response. The brunette American sat cross-legged on the floor with her wrists handcuffed together in her lap. Even before the incident with Moran, Evelyn had never seen so much resignation seep into those dark eyes that attempted to crease in a smile at her.

“It’s funny,” Evelyn attempted, sliding down from the uncomfortable hospital chair and settling next to her friend. “Most girls get haircuts after their first breakup. I got a one after my first near-death experience. Says a lot about a person, don’t you think?”

Abigail smiled and glanced down into her lap, the grin falling away before Evelyn placed a bandaged fingertip at her chin. Dark eyes met navy ones and Evelyn smiled.

“Uncle Mycroft won’t keep you here long,” she promised, gesturing to the handcuffs that sat snugly on Abigail’s thick wrists. “Those are just so he knows where you are until Dad gets better. I promise, you’re not going to spend a day in prison; don’t worry.”

Abigail chuckled mirthlessly and softly jerked her face away from Evelyn’s, “Abduction, kidnapping the niece of the most powerful man in England, conspiracy to terrorism, conspiracy to attempted murder, first degree battery; I’m not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but I’ve raking up _quite_ the list of offenses. I’m not…” She sighed and lowered her chin to her chest, slumping against the wall, “I’m not very hopeful.”

“When did you become such a pessimist?” Evelyn sniffed, cocking her brow in an attempt to be playful, but only succeeding in earning her a dark glare from the American.

“When did you become so naïve?” She bit, clenching her fists in her lap and swallowing thickly as if trying to restrain a sob in her throat. “Just… just forget I said anything.”

Evelyn sighed and lifted her gaze to the still form in the hospital bed. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the man against the stark white of hospital sheets, but even so, the sight sent a sinking sensation into her gut. Her father towered over everyone as a general principle, but when he was set against the sickening glow of hospital white, he looked so frail and fragile; as if a single touch would disintegrate his skin and turn him to ash. His left leg was lifted in a cast in the air and blotches of white wrapping sprinkled across his skin; dark lashes fanned across his bruised cheeks like they had for two days and a steady heart monitor _beeped_ to his side. Her father hated taking the time to sleep, but it seemed that when he decided to do it- like everything else in his life- he went (as Abigail would describe it) “Balls-to-the-Walls”.

“How’s he doing?” Evelyn jerked her head up as the blonde doctor slowly ambled into the hospital room, his limp slightly affecting the way he walked since the incident with Moran.

She sighed and chewed her cheek, pulling her legs closer to her, “Same. It’s just like he doesn’t _want_ to wake up.”

John frowned and rested a hand on his daughter’s short curls, kneeling in front of her, “He’ll be fine, don’t you worry. He’s just being lazy- you know him.” He smiled and Evelyn was forced to return the gesture, sad as it was and John gently cupped her cheek; eyes bouncing around her bruised face, “You look just like your mother.”

Evelyn thinned her lips and touched at her missing hair, “I know- it’s all gone. I feel naked.”

John leaned forward to press his lips to her forehead and smiled, “I know. But you’re still beautiful.”

“Oh, that resolves the _entirety_ of my concerns!” She teased, jerking her head as the being on the bed coughed lightly and moaned as he turned his head to the side. “Dad?”

The man seemed content enough to not answer, and only continued to lay motionless; not so much as even twitching his finger to show he was still present.

She sighed and slumped back against the wall, “That’s okay. You need the rest.”

John worried his lip between his teeth and stood to his feet, gently padding towards his husband and resting a hand on the black curls and holding his breath as if he might hear some miracle if he was quiet enough.

“Come back, Sherlock,” he pleaded, eying the despicable bruises that littered the ivory skin with disdain. “You saved our lives, now save your own.” He leaned forward and whispered into his ear so that no one else could hear, “I miss you…”

There was a sudden scuffing of shoes and two rather disheveled looking teenage boys appeared in the doorway, earning John’s curious gaze.

“Bloody guards wouldn’t let us in!” Jeremy hollered, gesturing to the doorway. “Nearly got tossed in jail just coming to check on you!”

Evelyn smiled and rolled her eyes, “Only you would get thrown in jail to break into a _hospital_.”

“Yes, you _are_ a rather awful influence, don’t you think?” He teased back, letting Michael walk past him and into the room.

“How is he?”

“Well he’s not scolding you on your stupidity, so that speaks volumes,” John sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he mumbled nervously, flicking his eyes to the still man on the hospital mattress; hating the way his stomach churned at the sight of him so… _stagnant_.

John was silent for a moment before he whispered back at him with a sorrow the young man had never heard in the strong doctor’s voice.

“Me too.”

 

***

 

_“You saved our lives, now save your own. I miss you…”_

Sherlock paced in his mind palace as he heard John’s soothing voice creep into his subconscious, begging to be heard.

“I’m _trying_!” Sherlock hollered, wrapping his arms tighter around himself in frustration. “I can’t get out!”

He narrowed his eyes at the large metal door that placed itself on his main stairway and puffed his cheeks out in irritation.

“Stupid, bloody door on my stupid, bloody stairs,” he growled, pacing back and forth in front of the hunk of metal with a huge keyhole towards the right side. He’d already tried picking it, he’d already tried _breaking_ it; he’d done everything he thought might work, yet to no avail.

Suddenly a thought crossed his mind and he sucked in the largest breath he could muster, “ _JOHN!_ ”

He held out the single syllable for far longer than necessary and waited for some sort of recognition from the outside of his mind. After none greeted him, he bellowed as deeply and loudly as he thought physically possible in his state of mind, “ _JOHN! I’m right here!_ ”

Warmth touched his skin and a familiar voice echoed in his head, “ _Shhh, Sherlock. It’s okay, it’s just a dream. You’re all right, Shhh.”_

Sherlock growled and gripped at his hair, jerking his eyes to the ceiling, “Ah, yes. _Very_ helpful! Very helpful _indeed_!”

He kicked out and continued his pacing finding that the door blocking his path continued to stare icily at him, as if taunting his inability to pass it.

“I am _fine_!” He yelled at the offending door, gesturing to his torso. “I don’t need to recuperate! I need to wake up! For God’s sakes, wake me _up_!”

The metal door stood silent and unwavering against Sherlock’s demands and he sighed with exasperation, glaring at his obstacle.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he tried softer, as if the door had feelings and he had somehow offended it with his strop. “Please, I just want to go _home_. I _lived_ \- see? I’m _trying_ , why won’t you just let me _go_?”

As no reply greeted his inquiry, Sherlock slumped to the ground and sat cross-legged as he stared at the door.

Perhaps if he stared hard and long enough, he’d convince it to open. _Perhaps_.

 

***

 

John picked nervously at the page in his book as he lifted his eyes towards the figure in the bed.

“It’s been four _days_ , Sherlock,” he mumbled, not sue that anyone besides him could hear the statement. “Don’t you think it’s time to come back to the world of the living?” At his lover’s silence, John sighed and looked back down at the time-yellowed paperback in his palms, “Be that way, then.”

“Daddy?”

John jerked his head to see his daughter rubbing tenderly at her eyes with bandaged hands where her head rested in his lap.

“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he sighed, running a hand over her blonde hair. “I just…”

“I know,” she mumbled, closing her navy eyes again. “I wish he’d just _do_ something- one way or another. This waiting business is getting on my damn nerves.”

John smirked and looked over at the American girl still stationed in his husband’s hospital room. Mycroft had no small pull in this facility, so the rules of “Immediate Family Only” were things that could be bent and twisted to his will. Thus, the young lady sat with her arms around her knees as she napped against the wall.

“All right, Abigail?” He asked quietly, watching her eyes flicker open then her expression sour once more as she tried to lift one hand and ended up jerking the other one along with it.

She sighed and nodded, “I’m fine, thanks.” She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall again in defeat. She’s only been constrained to the hospital and was not being deprived of any civil liberties besides the use of her hands individually, yet her bright little spirit dampened every day and it broke the good doctor’s heart.

“Come here, love,” he mumbled, setting his book at his side and watching as she opened her eyes and narrowed them at him. He smiled and extended his hand from where he sat on the hard floor, “Come here. Let me see if I can’t get those off. What Mycroft doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?”

She glanced at her bound wrists and then back at him, sighing dejectedly as she lifted onto her knees and slid over to John’s side. He smiled and gently maneuvered around the sleeping girl in his lap to fetch his keys from his pocket.

“Now if those are the same ones he used on me that one time…” he trailed off, remembering a time long ago when his husband had chained him to a table to test his ability to escape them (which only resulted in a broken leg on the table that still hadn’t _quite_ been repaired). “Come on, come on,” he hummed, flicking up a thin pin on his keychain and toggling with the release on her cuffs before…

“Ah ha!” He exclaimed softly, smiling at the young woman who immediately ripped the metal off of her wrists and rubbed tenderly at the skin there. “There. That ought to feel better.”

She smiled softly and creased her dark eyes at him in gratitude, “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“Of course, love,” he replied, lifting a hand to cup her cheek, appreciating the fact that she didn’t cower away from his touch. “Would you like to talk about what’s going on? You’ve had a terribly hard time recently. I want you to know you’re not alone here.”

Suddenly, Abigail’s demeanor became bitter and she looked down, jerking her face from John’s hand, “I don’t need your pity.”

“And I’m not giving it to you,” he reassured her softly, picking up her chin again and forcing her to meet his eyes. “No one blames you for any of this. You understand that, don’t you? This was bound to happen with or without your influence.”

Abigail’s armor stayed solid for a moment more before she sighed and leaned into John’s palm, “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Oh darling,” he hummed, “I know you’re frightened. I would be, too. But this wasn’t your fault.” He smiled and then his eyebrows rose in amusement, “You know, back when Sherlock and I first met, someone did something very similar to me.”

Abigail furrowed her brow and John explained kindly, making sure that the points hit home, “A madman named Moriarty kidnapped me and pinned me up against my husband, making me say all this awful nonsense to make him believe that _I_ had been the one behind the murders of people all over London. It was terrifying. I had bombs strapped to my chest and if I even messed up a _word_ , I would have killed us both.”

The young woman’s expression softened as John continued, “I’d never felt so awful in my life because I knew, even then, that everything I was saying was breaking Sherlock’s heart. I could _see_ it in his eyes. He was _terrified_ that he’d been wrong about me- wrong to _trust_ me and it was _obvious_.”

“Well, you’re both alive, so I assume nothing happened,” Abigail pressed listening intently to John’s every word.

“Not quite,” he admitted, the apples of his cheeks falling slightly. “It was due to that man that my husband disappeared for two years and I don’t need to tell you, they were the _worst_ years of my life. Regardless, the reason I’m telling you this is because you never know what is going to happen to you.”

Abigail cocked a brow and John tried again with a sigh, “That morning that Moriarty kidnapped me, I’d lived like every other day. But before that day had finished, I was one hundred percent convinced that that man in that bed over there had my heart. I would do _anything_ to keep him safe and the only way I learned that was by having my hand forced in front of him. Life has a funny way of happening while you’re carving out which paths you want to take, but perhaps it also occurs when you’re thrust onto someone else’s path. Don’t you think you’ve learned something out of all of this mess?”

 The American sighed and lowered her gaze, “Yeah. Don’t trust _anyone_.”

“No,” John hummed, shaking his head. “Not at all. Look around you.” She did so and observed the sleeping forms that graced her eyes. Jeremy leaned against Michael’s back in a fashion very similar to the scene in her favorite film, “ _Forrest Gump”_ and she took a moment to wonder if anyone in the room had actually _seen_ that wonderful bit of cinematography. Evelyn hummed in her sleep against John’s belly and the detective they were all waiting on lay silent in his hospital bed. John gestured to each one, “If you could go back, would you _really_ choose to not have them here? Even _my_ little one?” He ran a hand through the short curls in his lap and smiled, “You kidnapped her, poisoned her, and even had a hand in her potential death.” Abigail cringed with every point and John sighed, “Even so, she trusts you because she knows it wasn’t your _fault._ We _all_ do. You _have_ to trust people, Abigail; as bloody annoying as it is.”

She sighed and slumped forward, “I just want to go _home._ I’m tired.”

“I know you are,” he soothed, patting her shoulder with a bandaged hand. “Come here.”

He tapped his chest and the young girl’s bottom lip quivered as she leaned into him and John’s arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, “You’re all right. We’ll get you home soon enough. Just be patient.”

If she silently wept into his chest, John made no mentioned of it and he continued to rub her shoulders until they ceased their trembling, “Try to sleep, love. Maybe when you wake up, everything will be back to normal.”

She hiccupped into his soft jumper and leaned against him, trembling at the tender contact and the notion of support until her body fell silent and John ran a hand over her hair.

“Hopefully, when you wake up, everything will be… _better_.”

 

***

 

Sherlock leaned against the grandfather clock in his foyer as he sat on the ground and stared at the blasted door that refused to budge and give him control back over his mind. He bounced a ball against the hard surface and waited for it to come back to him before bouncing it again, listening to the tempo of frustration echo in the empty room.

“You know,” he mumbled at the offending door, “I have people waiting on me. You’re just wasting their time and it’s _terribly_ inconvenient.”

Or at least he _hoped_ there were still people waiting on him. He hadn’t heard anything since John’s soothing of his non-nightmares and he had absolutely _no_ idea how long he’d been sitting there, captive in his own mind.

A sudden shiver wracked through his body and he pulled himself closer into a ball to conserve his heat. Surely the jacket he still had on would keep him from freezing to death in this stupid wasteland of his head. He forced himself up and tossed the ball at the vault door, watching with mild curiosity as it flew farther down a hall into an area he hadn’t explored in a _very_ long time.

Sherlock took a step forward and raked a hand through his unruly curls as he padded down the dimmed hallway into rooms that had stayed stagnant and silent for years: rooms that contained his _fears_.

He quietly pressed open a door and peeked into the dark room, squinting in order to see in the limited light.

 _Perhaps…_ he thought as he flicked on the light in the room, illuminating boxes stacked upon boxes, covered in packing tape and chains. “Perhaps, I can wake _myself_ up.”

He smiled as he thought about it and the plan made more and more sense. Adrenaline and cortisol would seep through his system and raise his heart rate enough that he might actually be able to break down that blasted door by himself. Fight or flight responses would set in and his body would react as if it were fighting for his life; not merely waiting for _something_ to happen.

He stepped into the room and began to sift through the boxes, lifted some and kicking over others.

“Oh come on, I haven’t been afraid of Mycroft since we were children; why is that still in here?” He scowled, toppling over the box. “Ah! Here’s a good one.” He lifted a box labelled “26-08-1981” and moved it to the middle of the room, kneeling before it as he began to pull the tape from the edges.

“This will do wonderfully.”

As he ripped the edges of the box open he frowned as nothing emerged from within it. He paused, looked down into the empty cardboard and thinned his lips. Certainly he’d still be afraid of _that_. That’s sheer _life force_ that would be afraid of it.

Suddenly the roof began to ache and groan and Sherlock looked up as a thick trickle of water began to seep down the walls and he grinned, “Ah! Perfect!”

He stood to his feet and smiled as the trickle soon became a stream and suddenly the floor was filled with water up to his ankles.

“ _Sherlock!”_ He heard echoed in the room of fears. “ _Sherlock, hold on! I’m coming to get you!”_

Images flashed in his mind of falling down a well in the middle of a storm while gigging for frogs and his brother’s panicked voice as he knocked his head against the stone wall and refused to move against the soft sway of the water echoed in the dark room.

“ _Sherlock, wake up! Mummy! Father!”_

Water lapped up to his knees and he could feel the imminent tightening of his chest as the liquid chilled his skin. Thunder clapped in his mind, speeding up the process of rising water and soon it was at his chest. The second the frozen water hit his sternum, his chest seized with the chill and with the adrenaline pumping through his system.

“ _Sherlock! Christ- calm down!”_

“John!” He called out, wading through the icy water towards the door. _Perfect!_ If John was already reacting, he was succeeding- at least _marginally_.

He met smiled as he found the metal door, but frowned as soon as he realized it wouldn’t budge; even with the help of his fear of drowning.

“Oh for God’s sake!” He hissed, splashing towards the metal frame in frustration. The water was finally picking up to the point his long legs no longer reached the ground and he had to tread through it to stay afloat. He turned his head and boxes of fears floated on the water, just meandering to new locations and he scowled. _Blast it all, I hadn’t even considered that_. Soon he’d have a panic attack sitting at the table because a man with scars across his face popped up on the telly. _IF he’d just bloody well wake UP!_

He thinned his lips as he tried to determine what else to do to force himself awake before something he thought he’d locked far down in the depths of his hatred and skepticism wrapped itself around his mouth; the weight of its oily skin dragging him down into the water.

“ _Hello gorgeous,”_ it whispered; its Irish accent lilting the words in a way that made his stomach churn.

Sherlock spun around in the water and shook his head, doing his best to paddle way in the moving water, “You’re not-”

 _“It’s flattering, really,”_ the dark eyes smiled as he bared his teeth, _“that you still think of me after all these years.”_

Sherlock shook his head, but found that in the same way his muscles froze when he was five years old, he was unable to swim away from the slithering Irish man in front of him. Said man lifted a hand and rested it in his dark curls, twisting the fringe around his fingers.

“ _Are you frightened yet?_ ” He asked snidely, watching as Sherlock’s silver eyes widened with anticipation and surprise.

Sherlock jerked his head to the side as he heard the creaking of metal; the door groaning as it thankfully began to budge with the weight of the water. _Thank God. Progress!_

Suddenly his head was underneath the cool surface with an abrupt thrust, and the dark-eyed demon sneered softly as bubbles popped before his face and fingers scratched at his wrists, “ _Well honey…_ _You will be.”_

 

***

 

_Six days._

_Six bloody days_ and _nothing_ had improved. In fact, they’d only gotten _worse._

John shook his head as he rested a palm gently on his husband’s forehead, feeling the burning skin through his bandages. His fever had spiked in the middle of the night and his entire body remained vibrating with constant chills as his skin crept on past thirty-nine degrees.

 _Pneumonia. Hospital-borne bloody Pneumonia._ He should have _known_ this damned hospital would be the death of him. _How had it gotten in? The damned nurses? The ventilation? Fuck it all!_

The man on the bed coughed gently, filling his newly acquired ventilator mask with steam, and the sickening gurgle of liquid depositing in his lungs made John’s knees ache and his chest tighten. How ironic that the man who braved fire to save his loved ones would so sadly find his demise in water instead.

A thin stubble crept on Sherlock’s ashy skin and it trembled as his jaw chattered with the perceived cold.

John’s attentions were suddenly diverted as Evelyn sighed while she drew a line to connect another box on a notepad, waiting for Abigail to repeat the action and claim the little box as her own. Soon enough, a little “A” filled the square and Abigail continued drawing lines to connect other dots out of sheer boredom.

Jeremy and Michael had both been shooed away home after spending two entire nights in the hospital room, but as soon as the detective’s lungs ceased to function at normal capacity and his skin began to burn with infection, John had sent them away on Doctor’s Orders.

“Oh come on, Sherlock,” John mumbled, slicking back the dark hair with sweat and chewing his lip. “Where’s your _fight_? Where did you _go_?”

There was a clearing of someone’s throat and John looked up to see Sherlock’s presiding physician standing near the doorway. Evelyn flicked her eyes up and then immediately to John’s in silent panic.

“Doctor Watson,” she said softly, clutching her board to her chest. “May I have a word?”

John straightened his back as his daughter immediately stood to her feet, “Daddy, I’m-”

“It’s all right,” he interrupted, raising his hand to keep her at bay. He smiled, yet the girl noticed the expression didn’t quite touch his eyes. “I’m sure it’s just some paperwork; no need to fuss. Isn’t that right, Doctor Williams?”

The red-head grinned and clutched her board tighter, “Of course. If you’ll just step this way.”

Evelyn seemed to hold her breath as if she were about to attempt an argument, but at Abigail’s tugging at her wrist, she conceded and sat back down; eying her father as he stepped out of the room with a reassuring smile on his face.

As soon as the door to the hospital room was shut, however, the expression dropped and John’s shoulders sagged as he leaned against the opposing wall. Dr. Williams took immediate notice of this and figured she’d just put everything out on the floor, “Doctor Watson, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you-”

“No,” he agreed, resting his face in his palm and dragging it down to his chin. “No, you really don’t.”

Dr. Williams sighed and extended the board in her hand for John’s examination. He flicked through some scans of brains and broken bones and looked back up to her. “He’s… There’s nothing wrong with his brain,” she admitted softly, lifting a finger and tracing certain parts of it on the print-out for John’s clarification. “There’s no swelling, here _or_ here and there’s _nothing_ indicating that he should still be unconscious. It’s as if he just doesn’t want to wake-”

“I _know_!” John hollered, startling the woman at his side and finding that his own chest began to heave with labored breath. He closed his eyes and clenched one fist at his side, pressing it sharply against his thigh. “I _know_ ,” he tried again, softer, like an apology.

There was warmth at his shoulder and he looked up to see Dr. Williams’ concerned expression. She thinned her pink lips and sighed, “Doctor to doctor, I’m trying to be frank with you.”

“I… I appreciate it,” he mumbled back, not daring to keep her eye as he resolutely stared straight ahead.

“Your husband,” she started, looking for all the world like she was terribly uncomfortable with the conversation already. “Sir, if he doesn’t wake up soon…”

 _He won’t at all_ , hung silently in the air and John continued to stare forward, clenching his jaw until he was sure the molars were cracking.

“Sir, your husband’s systems are… well, they’re…” she said softly, keeping her grip tight on John’s shoulder, should he collapse at any time. She finally shook her head and sighed, “Look, on the other hand- this pneumonia is going to be _rough_ on him, but as long as he can push through it,” she exhaled shakily and forced a smile on her worn face, “if he can push through this, he’ll be fine. Well, perhaps not _fine_ , but…” She stalled as if mentally kicking herself on her terrible bedside manner, but her soft voice eventually met John’s ears again, “I just want to prepare you for the absolute _worst_ case scenario, Doctor Watson, _even_ if I don’t think that’s how it’s going to play out.”

John nodded, yet refused to meet her eyes. _Damn_ that stupid man for even _attempting_ to leave him again. _Damn_ his stupid heart for caring so much. _Damn_ Bart’s _bloody_ hospital for _-_

“ _Dad! Dad, you have to stop! Wake up!”_

_“Mr. Holmes, relax!”_

“Evelyn?” John breathed as he immediately opened the door and was greeted with the sight of Evelyn pressing Sherlock’s head against the pillow and pushing her shoulder against his chest as Abigail tried to stabilize the broken limb that jerked in Sherlock’s sleep.

He rushed to the side opposite his daughter and pressed one hand against his chest and the other at his forehead that attempted to thrash about in his sleep, “Sherlock! Christ- calm down!”

There was a throaty moan followed by a wet cough and John’s heart clenched at the pitiful noise.

“Is he having a seizure?” Evelyn questioned urgently as she leaned away from his chest and grabbed at her father’s flexing arms.

“No,” Dr. Williams piped up after waving at a nurse to bring sedatives. “No, it’s not a seizure.”

Radical beeping grated on John’s nerves and he rubbed his knuckles on Sherlock’s sternum, “Sherlock, you’ve _got_ to calm down! Come _on!”_

Watered lungs coughed and John pressed his lips to the clammy brow, furrowed with some nightmare he couldn’t see, “Sherlock, you’re all right. You’re _fine_.”

“Doctor Watson, I’m going to sedate him-”

“Just give him one bloody _minute_ , would you?” John snapped back, listening with a sinking heart at Sherlock’s inability to respire. “Come on, Sherlock. _Breathe_!”

“Daddy, what’s going on?” Evelyn chirped, her navy eyes wide with fright as the body shifted and jerked beneath her.

“I don’t know,” came the quiet reply as he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s brow again. “Breathe, love. Breathe and wake up. I _know_ you-”

“John! What on Earth!”

Mycroft’s normally measured and stoic gait jerked to a complete halt as he entered the room for his daily visit. Abigail jerked her eyes to John’s cross scowl and immediately moved from the mattress and towards the elder Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes, stay back.”

Indignantly, Mycroft glared down his nose, “You will not _order_ me to-”

“Oh, _won’t_ I?” She snapped, placing herself between the politician and the group at the bed. Two sets of eyes, dark with ire, glared at each other as Abigail jerked her chin up. “Stay here… with _me_. We’re going to suffocate him if we’re all on top of him.”

The politician’s flat expression twitched minutely as he forced his mind to think logically, finding that the girl he’d detained was right. _Perhaps she isn’t as useless as she seems; wretched thing that she is._

“Sherlock, love,” John hummed, gently flattening Sherlock’s hair back with a bandaged palm. “You must relax. It’s okay; you’re fine.”

There was a soft groan and Evelyn hummed, “Dad, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re okay, please stop. Please, please, please. You’re scaring me!”

John thinned his lips at his daughter’s distress just before a soft holler filled his ears and a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He jerked his head up and was delighted to see verdigris eyes flicking open as if they were held down by weights, darting around the room in confusion.

“Sherlock!” He boomed, his smile bright and white as the man in the white sheets _finally_ gave some effort to show he was still with them. “Sherlock, you’re all right; look at me. Look at me, you’re okay.”

John cupped the detective’s cheek and tilted his face towards him, tenderly rubbing on the all-too prominent cheekbone. Bloodshot eyes bounced around his features and flicked like they were threatening to close, but eventually contact was made and John grinned, “There you go, Sherlock. Relax. Just breathe and look at me. It’s okay.”

There was a stunted gasp that was shortly succeeded by a wet cough that caused the detective to pinch his eyes tight and grimace. The motion of his face brought the plastic mask to his attention and the heart monitor was not shy about alerting the room to his alarm.

“It’s just a mask, Sherlock,” John soothed, flattening the curls with his palm. “It’s to help you breathe. Don’t worry, you’re safe. You’re all right, just come back to me. Shhh.”

Verdigris eyes shut and his face pinched in concentration as he attempted to force his mind to quiet down and focus on one thing: the singular sensation of John’s thumb against his cheek.

“Dad, you’re doing wonderfully,” Evelyn chirped, earning her a startled eye from her father who immediately turned his eyes back to his husband’s; hardly daring to blink lest he disappear. Moments passed with quiet murmurings of comfort and soon the rapid beeping that filled the room softened to a patient hum that soothed every nerve of the vigilant parties.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John asked softly, slicking the damp curls back and watching the dark lashes flicker with exhaustion. Sherlock exhaled shakily and nodded, his expression still of premature shock. He inhaled as if to speak but immediately grimaced and moved his hand to his daughter’s wrist to squeeze it. As soon as he had her undivided attention, he flicked a flat hand against his throat twice.

“Daddy, he wants water,” she said softly with a smile, her heart leaping at the slight of her father’s cognizance.

Abigail jerked from in front of Mycroft and filled a wax cup with water from the single-suite sink and brought it over to John, who placed it gently at his lover’s chapped lips. A tanned hand slipped behind dark curls and pressed up gently, helping the dazed detective sip away at the life-sustaining liquid.

“Sherlock,” Dr. Williams addressed him sternly, making sure that every ear in the room heard her from where she stood at the foot of the bed. “Before we proceed any further, I need you to tell me that you recognize these people. Do you?”

He nodded his head fervently, which proceeded to swim and he hunched forward in a thick cough.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John soothed. “Just breathe.”

“What’s…?” Sherlock attempted, swallowing thickly and grimacing at the sound of his own voice, cracked from disuse. “What’s wrong… with me?”

“You have pneumonia,” John replied softly, smiling at the sound of the cracked baritone. “Not to mention a lovely set of burns, more bruises than I care to count, three broken ribs and a shattered tibia _and_ fibula.”

Sherlock’s lashes fluttered shut and he groaned quietly, coughing at the unfamiliar sensation of his vocal chords being put to use.

“In other words,” Evelyn piped up, gripping Sherlock’s hand tightly, “when you decide to beat yourself up, you go all out.”

She giggled and the sight made Sherlock’s lips twitch up, “Evelyn… You’re safe…”

“Thanks to you,” she grinned and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “You barmy git.”

He crinkled his nose at the insult and John chuckled, “You _are_ rather an _idiot_ , Sherlock.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock flicked up his eyes with a soft groan, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Unperturbed by his brother’s animosity, Mycroft stepped forward and Dr. Williams allowed him to take her spot at the foot of the bed, “Checking up on you, brother dear. You’ve been terribly ill, if you haven’t noticed.”

Sherlock shivered and could feel the flush of fever on his skin, “Yes, well I’m-” He interrupted himself with a nasty set of coughs that made John cringe at the sound.

“Sherlock, relax,” he hummed, pressing Sherlock back against the mattress. “He’s just going to be here for a little bit, then we’ll all leave so you can rest.”

“No!” He suddenly hollered, startling the man gripping his shoulder. He shook his head and frowned at the way his head swam. “Don’t. He’s there. He got loose.”

“Who got loose?” John pressed, pursing his lips in confusion.

“He escaped… Just don’t-”

“Alright, Sherlock,” John agreed, pressing a kiss to his head. “Alright, we’ll be right here. Don’t worry.”

Dark lashed fanned across his cheek for a second too long to be a blink and he jerked them back up, forcing himself to look at John’s face as he gurgled, “How long?”

“Six days,” Mycroft suddenly interjected with a tad too much venom, as if Sherlock had committed a sin against him personally.

He widened his eyes and lowered them to the ground.

“It’s okay, Sherlock; you’re all right now and that’s all that matters,” John encouraged, shooting Mycroft a scathing glare. “You’re all right, so just relax.”

“John, I couldn’t…” Sherlock mumbled as his eyelids began to close of their own volition. If he’d been asleep for _six_ _bloody days_ , why did he feel so terribly _exhausted_? “I tried…”

“Shhh,” John hushed, pressing his hand against Sherlock’s curls, not knowing what the delirious detective was eluding to. “Shhh, Sherlock. Just come back to me, okay? Don’t go away again.”

Sherlock shivered with fever and gripped towards John’s hand, not taking any notice of the bandages, “I couldn’t… I did… try…”

“I know,” John lied, trying his best to mollify his husband as the clutches of sleep grabbed at him once more. “Just relax, love. It’s okay. Just go back to sleep and make sure you can wake up. Don’t go wherever you went.”

 _I can’t promise anything_ , was what Sherlock _wanted_ to say, but the only noises that came out of his lips was a soft cough and groan before his eyes finally fell closed again.

“Daddy?” Evelyn pressed, watching as her father’s body began to sag with the sudden decrease in adrenaline. “If he going to be okay?

John finally lifted his eyes from Sherlock’s face and honestly smiled at her for what felt like the first time in a week.

“Yes, darling,” he confirmed, reveling in the sheer happiness that radiated from Evelyn’s cheeks.

 

“I think he’s going to be just _fine_.”

                                            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm thinking about separating this into a story and a sequel and I'd love some input for name ideas for it! Comment below if you've got an idea and thank you again for consistently staying with this story!


	35. To Spite Humanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I am SO SORRY for the lack of updating! Senior year has been crazy, but I am happy to announce: I have been accepted to Law School! :D This is the first chapter of two I will be posting today as a holiday gift to my wonderful readers who have been so amazingly patient with me. Bear with me!

“Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, and Stephen Fry.”

Abigail crinkled her nose and groaned, “Oh my God, they’re all _ancient_. Give me someone born in the same _century_ as me at least!”

Evelyn smiled as she leaned back against Abigail’s back, “Nope! I’m curious! Fuck, Marry, Kill- come on.”

Abigail smiled as she thought about it, then she suddenly snorted, “You know what? They should really call this game ‘Wed, Bed, Behead.’ Whoever made this up missed a golden opportunity.”

Evelyn squealed with laughter as she clapped her hands, “Oh my God! That’s hilarious! Alright, Wed, Bed, Behead! Come on!”

There was a soft humming before finally, “Ok, well Stephen Fry is, like, the coolest cat on the face of the planet- super funny- but I don’t think I’d want to get in bed with him.” She quirked up a brow and smiled wryly, “God knows he wouldn’t want _me_ in a bed!”

Evelyn swatted at her and Abigail began to giggle as she tried to continue, “Ok, Johnny Depp- I think I’d marry him. But _only_ if he dressed up like Jack Sparrow at least once a week.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be a _Captain_ in there somewhere,” the blonde girl teased.

“Either way! If I married him, I’d be best friends with Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter, and you can’t beat that with a stick.”

“Okay, so bed and behead?”

“Umm, well Brad Pitt’s children are all grown up so I don’t suppose they necessarily _need_ him around all the time, but I bet he’d be a little more enthusiastic under the sheets if you know what I mean!”

The set of giggles that radiated from the two girls filled the practically empty hospital corridor with light that had long since passed with the sun.

“You’re _horrible_!” Evelyn squealed, running her hand through her short curls, frizzing it out in every direction. She pouted softly and patted the kinks back down fruitlessly.

“You’re just going to make it worse,” Abigail suggested, flicking a dark eye towards Evelyn’s attempts.

“You know what? Shut up Miss Perfect Hair,” she scowled, glaring at Abigail’s effortlessly straight hair around her shoulders.

Abigail rolled her eyes and fished a hair elastic from her wrist, pulling all her hair into a messy bun that splayed the ends of her hair over her crown. She cocked her head comically and stuck out her tongue, “Better?”

“Much!”

Abigail snorted and rolled her eyes as she leaned back against the corridor wall. The hall suddenly fell silent as the American fidgeted with her fingers.

“What day is it?”

Evelyn slipped her mobile from her back pocket and sighed, “December twenty-third, why?”

Evelyn shifted on her side as her friend suddenly sniffled, “Hey. Hey, are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Abigail huffed, scrubbing her face with her pale lavender sleeve and blinking towards the ceiling. “I’m just being stupid.”

Evelyn pursed her lips and extended her hand for Abigail’s examination. The question was silent, but was communicated effectively and the American leaned forward into the English girl’s arms.

“Oh, Shhh,” Evelyn mollified her with soft words that hummed, just like her father did to her. “I know, you’ll leave soon enough and you won’t ever have to come back. I promise.”

“It’s… It’s not that,” Abigail sniffed, sighing shakily into Evelyn’s shoulder. “I’m not worried about that any more. Either it’s gonna happen or it won’t. It’s just… It’s my Mom’s birthday today.”

“Oh, Abigail,” Evelyn hummed, lifting her hand to cup the back of her head.

“I just wanted to see her, that’s all,” Abigail sighed sadly.

After another moment of silence, Evelyn whispered, “Abigail? Do you think I could ask you something?”

With a sniff, the American leaned back and scrubbed at her face, “Shoot.”

Evelyn let her eyes fall to the ground as she worried her lip between her teeth, “What’s… what is it like to have a mother?”

Ebony eyes flicked up, then back down towards her hands, “Oh. Um. Well, I don’t know. She’s all I’ve ever really had, so I don’t know what else it would be like. It’s like asking me what it’s like to have a sister.”

“What _is_ that like?” Evelyn pried, navy eyes creasing. She shrugged, “I’ve always wondered.”

Abigail scoffed, “Well, I dunno. What’s it like to have two dads?” Evelyn lifted her brows in contemplation and then went quiet.

“What happened to your Mom?” Abigail pressed, lifting a dark brow. “You know, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Evelyn insisted, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her cheek against her knees so that she was looking at Abigail’s face. “She died when I was born. Car accident, I think. I don’t know how I survived, but I did and ever since, my Daddy’s been with my Dad and that’s all I’ve ever known.”

Abigail hummed her understanding and was silent for a moment more before, “Do they love each other?”

The question caught her off guard and Evelyn quirked her brow, “What?”

“Your folks,” Abigail clarified, mirroring Evelyn’s pose and looking at her. “Do they love each other? Like, can you _feel_ it or when you listen to them talk to each other, does your heart pump faster because you know a fight’s about to start?”

“No,” Evelyn answered immediately, shaking her head. “Absolutely not, they never argue like that. Well, I mean, I guess they do, but I don’t think I could be around either of them too long without having a row with them myself.” She smiled sadly and wrapped her arms around her legs, slightly muffling her mouth, “To answer your question, they do. I mean- you’ve seen them. Daddy won’t leave this hospital until Dad does and you should see Dad when Daddy’s hurt: he gets absolutely _frantic_. My parents love each other more than anything else I think. Sometimes I even think more than me, but if I’d been through everything they have together, I think I’d understand. I just… Have you ever watched a movie and you just whisper to yourself, ‘ _wow, I wish I had that’_?”

Abigail nodded, so Evelyn continued, “They’re like that. Sometimes they argue so much that I’m afraid they’re going to break every piece of furniture in the house, but then sometimes…” She smiled sadly, “Sometimes I’ll just be sitting on the couch and they’ll be in their chairs and have an entire conversation with just their expressions in front of me. Never say a word- they just look at each other and I can _feel_ them loving each other from across the room.”

She then grinned and leaned back, expressing with her hands, “And then sometimes my Dad will get all flustered and frustrated because his case is getting cold or going south and he can’t figure it out and all Daddy has to do is _put his arms around him_ and I can actually _see_ the cogs slowing down in his brain as he hugs him back. Have you ever seen something like that? It’s the weirdest thing ever- like I can see all of his thoughts buzzing around his head like little bees and with a single touch everything goes silent and he’s just focused on Daddy. Makes you wonder.”

“Hmmm,” Abigail hummed, resting her high cheek on her knee. “I guess… I guess having a Mom is like having an older sister- which doesn’t help you at all- okay, how about this.” She leaned back and gestured with her hands, “Have you ever been crying and someone hugs you at the right minute and it just feels warm and soft? I… I think that’s what having a Mom is like. Or- at least mine.”

She grinned, but dark eyes were distant as she continued, “And having a sister is like… I guess it’s kind of like having a puppy. Ha, sometimes they drive you up the effing wall and you just want to throttle them, and then sometimes they make you laugh so hard you think you might pee your pants. It’s like having a best friend that you’re stuck with for your entire life. And my sister and I- we have our own little language really. I can say one word and she’ll know what I’m talking about and I won’t… Her brain works that way, you see. Her memory is _impeccable_ so say I mention something about that one time at that once place with the pink flamingo- she’d totally know what I’m trying to say. It’s wicked cool.”

She then sighed and rested her chin on her knee, “And sometimes it’s horrible, because sometimes I just want to be _me._ I want to do what _I_ want to do without having to worry about the repercussions of my actions on my family- but I can’t. But you know what? As much as I hate it sometimes- I wouldn’t give it up for the world.”

Evelyn smiled and rested a hand on her friend’s arm, “Your mother raised you well.”

The American smiled and rested her hand on top of the pale one, “Your Dads did, too.”

They kept their hands there for a moment before Evelyn pulled it back and smiled, “I guess I’ve just always wondered what it’d be like to have someone more… I don’t know… Like me? I mean, I have Mrs. Hudson, but I feel like she’s more my grandmother than anything else. I just- I’d never give them up either, but I still wonder. You know? Like- I’m not girly. Really, but sometimes I _want_ to be, but I feel like they wouldn’t know what to do with it. If I wore a dress and decided to wear actual make up and do my hair, they’d stop me before I went out the door, trying to figure out what trouble I was about to start. Like I was raised to be strong and independent and brave and I _am_ all of that- I hope- and I think my parents are relieved by that a bit, but I just- ugh.”

She ran a hand through her short hair and laughed, “Sometimes I want to be emotional and sappy and bratty just because I _can_ , but I… I _can’t_. And you know- sometimes… this is stupid- sometimes I want to watch silly movies and cry, but it’s… well it’s kind of pitiful to do it alone, you know?”

The American smiled and nodded, “Totally. I… I must admit, it’s nice to do that sometimes. Like if I have a rough day, all of us will just stick in a movie and throw pillows at each other for the sake of doing so.” She creased her eyes as she hugged herself, “I miss that a lot. I never thought I would until I didn’t have it anymore.”

Evelyn’s lips twitched in a smile at that and she leaned against the wall.

“You know… I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to have someone I could depend on,” Abigail sighed sadly. “Like I’ve always wanted someone who would just be like, ‘ _I’ve got you.’_ Someone who would braid my hair and let me fall apart sometimes just because I _needed_ to.” She shrugged, “I guess we always want what we can’t have.”

Evelyn hummed, then smiled, “You know. I’ve never really had… _girl_ -friends.”

Abigail smirked and shrugged again, “Me either. Where I come from, all the girls are stuck up and raised on their Daddy’s pocketbook. I either hung out with guys or with my family.”

“It’s… _nice_ ,” Evelyn admitted, her cheeks flushing. “I know you probably don’t feel the same way, but I’m actually really glad you moved to London.”

The brunette snorted and rubbed her nose against her sleeve, “You know, I could have done without the blackmail and the burning buildings… but I am, too. Even if I have to leave it in chains.”

Unwilling to give into the bait of another argument, Evelyn hummed before turning to look at the hospital room across from her.

“Be right back,” she mumbled, pulling to her feet and padding through the door, shutting it slowly behind her.

“All right?” A deep voice whispered, hoarse with coughing and wet lungs, as the handle clicked, causing Evelyn to sigh.

“Yeah,” she ran a hand through her hair and slowly walked through the dark room. Being close to two in the morning, her father _should_ have been asleep, but knowing Sherlock Holmes, she knew there was hardly a snowball’s chance in hell that that was the case.

Sherlock coughed gently and Evelyn saw the soft shadow of him pulling his mask from his face, “I absolutely _hate_ this bloody thing.”

“Then you should go to sleep and get _better_ so we can take you _home_ ,” Evelyn teased, quietly pulling a spare chair towards his bedside.

“Shhh!” Sherlock hissed, nodding his head toward the other side of the room where the old doctor curled awkwardly in a larger chair that Mycroft’s men had brought in in anticipation of John’s reluctance to vacate the premises without Sherlock, “Your father’s asleep and God knows he needs it. He’ll be an absolute _nightmare_ tomorrow without it.”

The blonde girl smiled at her father’s uncharacteristic nurturing and leaned back against the chair, settling her legs crisscrossed on the seat, “Sorry. Why are you still up?”

“I could ask the same of you, little one,” Sherlock whispered, punctuated by another wet cough. He then slumped back and glared at the hateful ceiling, “Bored.”

“You’re always bored.”

There was a soft wheeze then Evelyn’s stomach clenched as Sherlock pulled the irritating mask back on to take a few breaths before yanking it back off, “Yes, but this room is _especially_ dull.”

“I love you, Dad,” Evelyn whispered suddenly, fighting the urge to clap her hands over her mouth at the admission.

In the darkness, Evelyn saw a dark brow quirk and her father groaned slightly as he sat up straight, “Why do you say that? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she hummed, shaking her head. “Nothing’s wrong, I just… I want you to know that.”

Suddenly, there was warmth on her cheek and a large palm lifted her face towards him, “Of course I know that, darling, but you’re troubled.” He smiled, nodding at the door, “You scuffed your shoes at the door- you only do that when something’s on your mind. Also you’re rubbing your thumb against your jeans- you bit it too close to the quick- you’re upset.”

Evelyn gently chewed on her lip and sighed, conceding, “I’m not upset, I’m just… tired.”

“You know, you _can_ go home,” Sherlock hummed, rubbing a weathered thumb against her cheekbone.

“I’m not going to leave you here,” she protested before Sherlock shook his head.

“I already have one guard dog, Evelyn,” he teased nodding towards his husband. “Certainly I don’t need two.” His hand jerked on her skin as he coughed and slowly leaned back into his hospital bed. “Besides, you need some fresh air _and_ clothes.”

Evelyn huffed a short laugh, but remained silent and still in her seat, “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

 “Do you…” She sighed and lowered her head. “Do you wish it were different?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “Do I wish I wasn’t trapped in a hospital? Most certainly.”

“No,” she hummed, closing her eyes as her father’s hand fell away from her skin. “I mean… Do you wish it would have been different? Your life. Like… would it have been better-”

“Stop.”

Evelyn jerked up her head and met silver eyes that still shone in the darkness of the room. They pinched closed for a moment as he coughed and settled against the mattress, but when they opened again, they were soft and open, “You’re feeling guilty. Why?”

_Guilty?_ Evelyn crinkled her nose. Was she feeling _guilty?_ “I don’t… I don’t know. Don’t you think sometimes that it would have been easier? I mean, it’s my fault ninety percent of the time you end up here, and if I hadn’t been around to use as bait, you and Daddy would be at home right now instead of in a hospital. And Abigail… Christ, poor Abigail. She’d not be in a completely different continent away from her family _honestly_ believing that she’s going to spend her life in prison. I just-”

“Shhh,” Sherlock whispered, gripping her hand and causing her to look up. At the glimpse of despondency he saw, he pursed his lips and released her hand, gently scooting over on his bed, “Come here.”

At Evelyn’s quirked brow, Sherlock sighed, “Oh come now, I’m not even _contagious_ anymore.” He smiled as she flicked her eyes down to her own waist and rolled his eyes, “Yes, you have wide hips. Be that as it may, I promise you will fit.”

Evelyn shot a haughty glare at her father before she gently lifted from her chair and crawled on her side next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her back. She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling tension seep from her body as her father traced his hot fingertips on her upper arm.

“Do you realize how much of your father you have in you?” A deep rumble whispered, causing her to shake her head. Sherlock smiled and rested his cheek on her forehead, “You both think you carry the world on your shoulders. Why is that?” She shrugged and he chuckled, punctuating it with a soft cough, “I think it’s because you both _care_ too bloody much. You worry about everyone else so terribly, you forget that you need to be worried about as well.”

“I don’t need-”

“Evelyn, you’re _eighteen_ ,” Sherlock interrupted, lifting his brow. “You’re hardly grown up yet, so stop _worrying_. Stop trying to save the world. It’s not your purpose. _Yet_ , that is.”

She sighed deeply and shrugged again, “You were _someone_ before I came along, you know? You were healthy and strong and sharp as a tack, but then you had to cut back because I was there. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“Now you’re just _looking_ for something to complain about,” Sherlock hummed with a smile. “Do you know who came up with your name?”

Evelyn furrowed her brow, but shrugged when nothing came to mind.

“ _I_ actually did,” he admitted, resting his cheek on her head. “The moment I saw you, I knew you would be the most beautiful, _brilliant_ young woman the world would ever know and Evelyn Mary Watson was the name on my tongue.” He coughed again, pulling away from her for a moment before resettling. “Besides your father, you are the most _important_ person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“You don’t ever-”

“Would you ask Daddy this?” Sherlock queried, tilting his head so that he could meet her eyes.

Her cheeks flushed and she shrunk into herself, “No.”

“So why ask me?”

She sighed and chewed her lip, “I hate seeing you in a hospital bed. And I hate it even more that it’s _my_ fault you’re there. I just… Daddy asked for this,” she mumbled, gesturing to her body as a whole. “You didn’t.”

“Evelyn Watson, you look at me right this moment.”

Hesitantly, Evelyn flicked her navy eyes up and they landed on a rather haggard, yet terribly determined looking detective. Instinctively she flinched in anticipation of Sherlock’s harshness but was surprised to feel the arm around her grip tighter and his other hand coming to cup her cheek.

“Evelyn Mary Watson, you are no less _my_ daughter than you are that of John Watson.” His silvery eyes flicked about her face and he frowned, “Regardless of whether I anticipated you or not, and regardless of whether or not you have my hair or my eyes or what have you…” He shook his head as he stifled a cough into his shoulder, “You are _mine_. You have my mind, my mannerisms, and most irksomely my penchant for _trouble_. There is no question that you most _certainly_ belong to _me._ Whatever has occurred since you were born has been my pleasure to be a part of for you are _my_ daughter.” He lifted a brow pointedly, “Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” she whispered, lowering her eyes.

“Good.”

A soft cough jerked her father away from her and he begrudgingly pulled his mask back down on his face.

“I should go,” she whispered, sitting up and quietly resting a hand on his shoulder. “You need _sleep_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grimaced as he hacked into the oxygen mask, “As much as I loathe to admit it… I believe you’re right.”

Navy eyes creased in a gentle smile as she gripped his shoulder, “I love you.”

“And I love you,” he replied, softening his expression before scowling. “Now go away. And bring me back something from home.”

She smirked and slid from the bed, padding over to the door before flicking up her right hand in an affectionate sign before slipping back out into the hallway.

Sherlock let out the urge to cough that he’d been stifling and finally leaned back in his bed, panting.

“I… I know you’re awake,” he mumbled into the air, pulling off his mask once more.

“No I’m not,” came the soft reply that Sherlock could practically hear the smile in.

“How much did you hear?”

There was a soft groan as his husband stretched and pulled himself to his feet, “Oh, enough.” He rested a hand on Sherlock’s curls and smiled, “By the way, I don’t ‘care too much’. I care just the right bloody amount to keep your head on your shoulders.”

“Be that as it may,” Sherlock sighed, “Evelyn _does_. And as maddening as it is, she needs justification for her actions and quirks. You were the prime target for such validation.”

John rolled his eyes and gently sat on the side of the bed next to his husband’s hips, “Ah. So how come Evelyn gets to lie down, but I don’t even get to sleep with my own husband?”

Sherlock scoffed and narrowed his eyes with a thin smile, “Because if I let _you_ up here, you’d not only rob me of my blankets, but you’d soon kick me out of my own bed! Greedy thing that you are.”

John laughed and shook his head, “That is not _true!_ Sometimes I wear my jumpers to bed because _you_ steal all of _my_ covers!” He smiled softly as he rested his hand over the thin chest that began to tremble at his cool touch and then suddenly frowned, “Love, you’re still _really_ warm.”

“I know,” he hummed just before coughing into the crook of his arm.

“Sherlock, why won’t you _sleep_?” John pressed, resting his hand on Sherlock’s brow and feeling the unnerving heat that resided there. It was lower than it had been, but still too high for how long he’d been ill. “You’re never going to get better if you don’t.”

“I can’t,” he replied softly.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John stated sternly, “as your doctor, I am _telling_ you to sleep.”

“John, you’re not _listening_ ,” he scowled; his severity undermined by another cough. “I _can’t_.”

“And just why _not_?”

“He’s _there_ ,” Sherlock mumbled, lowering his eyes.

“You keep saying that, Sherlock, but I don’t know what you _mean_ ,” John groaned, ripping his hand away and running through his own hair. “I want to go _home_ , Sherlock, and the only way that’s going to happen is if you’re there _with_ me.” He softened his expression at the glimpse of his husband’s hopelessness and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, “I don’t know what you’re afraid of Sherlock, but I promise: you’ll be _fine_.”

John pursed his lips as he glanced at the deep purple tattoos only barely hidden by the darkness of the room. Since he’d woken up, John would have sworn his husband had accumulated less than ten hours of sleep in total; something unheard of in one trying to heal.

Sherlock coughed and leaned back into his mattress to which John hummed, “Sherlock, there is _no one_ there. Whatever you’re afraid of- it’s just a _dream_. It’s not _real_. Even if you _do_ have a nightmare, you’ll wake up and I’ll be right here. I promise: I won’t leave you.”

The detective hacked into his shoulder, so John pulled the hateful mask over his lover’s face. “Please,” he pleaded, slicking back the dark curls as Sherlock looked back up at him. Pupils dilated not from the lack of light, but from the abundance of exhaustion twitched as Sherlock’s eyes flicked about John’s face. “Please, Sherlock. Just do this for me, okay? I’ll be right here. I won’t let you go away again, all right?”

The detestable heart monitor to Sherlock’s side alerted his husband of his anxiety and the detective scowled, cursing the abominable piece of machinery with every ounce of energy he had left. The concern and worry that was radiating from his husband was enough to convince him to brave his own rebelling mind long enough to curb his exhaustion and he nodded, weakly tugging at John’s wrist, “Stay?”

“Of course,” he soothed, placing his hand over the racing heart. “I’ll always stay. Just come back to me, all right?”

He nodded softly and coughed before settling into his mattress, closing his eyes.

“It’s too quiet,” he mumbled after a while to which John snorted.

“You are something else, you know that?” He teased, leaning forward to press a sweet kiss to the heated brow. “I guess I’ll just have to keep you entertained, won’t I?”

“ _Spare_ me,” Sherlock quipped, punctuating it with a pitiful cough that wracked his entire frame.

“Well,” John hummed, watching at Sherlock’s lashed fluttered against his cheeks, “Even if you’re going to be an arse about it, I suppose I could tell you about that one time my bunkmate found a scorpion in his bed, that I may or _may not_ have planted there myself.”

John’s soothing voice filled the room with stories of sand and sun and soon unconsciousness washed over his husband for the first time in what John was _sure_ to be over two days at _least_.

“Sleep well,” he mumbled, slipping off of the mattress for a moment to quietly drag his chair towards the bed. As he sat in it, he delicately grabbed his husband’s pale hand and pressed his lips to the thin skin.

“I love you.”

 

***

 

Evelyn sighed as she shut the door to her father’s room and lowered her eyes to the brunette girl on the other side of the hall.

“How is he?” Her friend questioned, pulling herself up from where she sat and stretching with a soft groan.

“Hard-headed as ever,” she hummed, crossing her arms over her chest before jerking her head up and smiling. “You wanna go somewhere with me?”

Abigail furrowed her brow and then smiled, “Well I’d have to check my calendar- switch some appointments around- but I suppose I could find the time. Whatcha have in mind?”

“I want to go home.”

Although Evelyn didn’t suppose Abigail had wanted to advertise it, there was an unmistakable shiver before she wrapped her arms around her chest, “Oh, well I dunno-”

“What is my uncle going to do?” Evelyn sniffed indignantly. “If he’s that concerned, he’ll know where to find us.”

Dark eyes narrowed at the ground as she obviously debated internally before she chuckled and shrugged, “What the hell- why not?”

The blonde grinned and grabbed her hand, dragging her towards the exit, “Wonderful! Come on!”

She popped the stairway door open and hopped down the stairs with Abigail on her heels, “You’re jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof. What’s up?”

She smiled and grabbed her companion’s hand, leading her out into the lobby, “I’m not _jumpy_ , I’m just ready to _not_ be in a hospital- a sentiment I am _sure_ you are sympathetic to.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Abigail agreed with a smile. “I just want to know why we’re tempting the king of the world if not only to spite him.”

“You know, not everything is about _you_ ,” Evelyn teased turning to her friend as they stepped out of the sliding glass doors and into the chill of the wee hours of the morning. Abigail gasped and wrapped her arms around herself with a grin, closing her eyes for a moment to revel in the cold air that prickled her skin.

“God! It’s cold!” Evelyn chirped, grabbing Abigail’s arm with one hand and hailing a cab with the other.

“I don’t have any-” Abigail attempted, gesturing to her lack of a wallet before Evelyn waived her off.

“Don’t worry,” she smiled. “I’ll cover it.”

Abigail hummed her acquiescence and found herself perched in a cab, riding through London for the first time in what felt like forever. She could hardly remember the world outside the stark white of the hospital and Evelyn took note of her relief immediately.

“I _am_ sorry,” she stated quietly, gripping her friend’s hand and causing her to turn away from the window. The blonde girl smiled sadly and shrugged, “I don’t know why my uncle is overreacting about you. He’s always so… _logical_ , but this doesn’t make any sense. At least not for him.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Abigail quipped, “I _am_ a terrorist in the making in his eyes. Doesn’t do me any favors in that sense.”

“Well, _yes_ , but still,” she furrowed her brow and shook her head. “I don’t even think he detained the man who tried to throw me out of a tower and I feel like that’s a _tad_ more dramatic. I mean, that bloke had _wanted_ to kill me.”

“You sure have a habit of makin’ more enemies than friends, don’t you?”

Evelyn smirked, “Guess so. But ninety percent of the time, it’s not _actually_ my fault.”

“Uh-huh,” Abigail hummed, flicking her eyes back towards the window with a grin. “It’s beautiful.”

“What is?”

Abigail pointed out at the light sprinkling of snow that whispered through the air, “London. Winter. All of it, I guess. Never had a ‘White Christmas’. Doesn’t snow back home- hell, it hardly goes below sixty in the winter. Your city is just… gorgeous. Back home there’s miles and acres of open land and pastures, but here it’s like life is constantly buzzing about.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” the young detective smiled. “Must be nice to live somewhere quiet though. Somewhere with nature.”

“Oh for sure. If I go too long without seeing trees, I get anxious,” the American grinned fondly. “Side effects of having a forest right outside your front door, I suppose.”

“Ah! Here we are!” Evelyn chirped, flicking her eyes to the window and sensing the slowing of the cabbie. She pulled some notes from her pocket and handed them to him before sliding out of the cab and dragging her friend along with her.

“Come on, it’s bloody _cold_ out here!” She urged, fishing her keys from her pocket and jamming them into the door. As soon as she began to turn the key though, the door swung out in front of them.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Evelyn cocked a brow at the elderly woman wrapped up in a thick blue housecoat standing in the doorway.

“Evelyn!” Mrs. Hudson chided, lovingly; tsk-ing as she pulled the girl in from the cold. “What in heaven’s name are you doing up at this time of night? Where are your parents?”

Evelyn smiled and pulled Abigail in front of the landlady, “Mrs. Hudson, this is my friend, Abigail. She’s staying the night tonight.”

Mrs. Hudson grinned and began wring her weathered hands together, “Oh, well how lovely to meet you, Ms. Abigail. I know you’ll make yourself at home here. Now dearie, answer my questions.”

Evelyn shrugged and pressed on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders, directing her back to her flat, “My parents are still at the hospital. Dad’s still got a really bad fever and he’s taking a terribly long time to get better. I wanted to come home and get some fresh air while he was sleeping. Why on earth are _you_ up? You need your beauty sleep, Mrs. Hudson!”

The elderly woman grinned and cocked a brow at the young woman, “Oh, you cheeky thing! I’ve been so worried about your father; I heard the key and thought it might be him.”

The blonde girl frowned slightly and lowered her eyes, “Unfortunately I don’t think he’ll be back here for a little while more.  He’s- what did you call it, Abigail?”

The American snorted and shook her head, “I said he was ‘sick as a dog’.”

Evelyn crinkled her nose, “What on earth makes a dog sick? Your idioms are so _odd_.” The American rolled her eyes as Evelyn continued, “Anyways, we’re here to get some rest and grab some stuff for my parents. You really should head back to bed, though. Nothing exciting will be happening tonight, I promise.”

“Well, alright, love,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, resting a hand on Evelyn’s flushed cheek. “Sure I can’t make you a cuppa or-”

“Really, Mrs. Hudson,” she soothed with a soft smile, “we’re fine. Thank you for the offer, but we’re exhausted and headed straight for bed.”

“Suit yourself then,” the landlady smiled, patting her cheek and opening 221A’s door. She turned and creased her eyes at the strange young lady at Evelyn’s side, “It was a pleasure to meet you…?”

“Abigail,” the American finished as she extended her hand, noting the confusion in Mrs. Hudson’s tone as if she couldn’t remember. “The pleasure is mine.”

“Abigail!” She exclaimed softly, shaking her head and gripping the American’s hand in a delicate grasp. “Such a pretty name- I tell you, the moment you start heading towards your golden years, your mind just goes on without you! Goodnight, girls.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson,” Evelyn hummed, turning on her heel and heading up the stairway, without waiting for Abigail to catch up.

“Well she seems nice,” Abigail commented as she warily stepped up the stairs.

“You said _I_ seem jumpy,” Evelyn noted, narrowing her eyes at the American and flicking on the lights, “but you’re looking at everything here like it’s going to bite you.”

As she stepped into the flat, Abigail eyed up the skulls that sprinkled the walls and smiled, “Well, I have a feeling _something_ might.” She pulled her hair down from its tie and ran her hand through it, “Dunno. I feel like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“ _Relax_ , it’s going to be _fine_ ,” she pleaded, plopping on the couch with a groan. “Oh my God, it’s so good to be home.”

Abigail favored her a small smile and settled delicately on the edge of the red plaid chair across the room. _Evelyn’s right,_ she told herself; allowing herself to settle back into the seat. _You’ll just get a good night’s sleep and be back there before that asshat even knows you’re gone._

“I agree.”

“What?”

Evelyn fixed her arms behind her head and grinned, “You’re thinking that my uncle is a tosser. In this sense, I agree.”

Abigail snorted, “Well, not in so many words, but yes.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

“What?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes, “Do you always need to hear things twice?”

“Well _no_ ,” the American sighed, crossing her leg over her knee. “That was just an awfully strange question.”

“Not _that_ strange,” she shrugged. “I don’t know- isn’t that what girls talk about normally?”

Soft laughter filled the flat and Abigail settled more comfortably in her skin, “Well, I mean- I _suppose_. I don’t think having two X chromosomes gives me any proclivity towards gossip, but whatever. To answer your question- yes, I have.”

“How long?”

“Uh, two years, I think?”

“That’s a long time for us at least,” Evelyn commented before flicking her eyes over to her friend. “What happened?”

Abigail smirked and mimicked Evelyn’s lackadaisical posture, “Oh, he and I just didn’t work out. Two real different people, you know? Ha, it ended on a really bad note, too. He got angry with me at school and held me up against the wall in the band room.”

Evelyn shifted onto her side with a newfound interest as Abigail closed her eyes and grinned, “Yeah, well that was his first mistake. Then he grabbed my shoulders and tried to scare me.” She rolled her knuckles absently on the armrest, “I always thought his nose looked better afterwards anyways.”

“Never took you for a violent person,” Evelyn hummed.

“Oh, I’m normally not. I actually hate getting into fights,” Abigail shook her head. “But I am _not_ about to let someone try and intimidate me like that. Ladies shouldn’t start fights, but we most certainly can _finish_ them.”

Navy eyes creased with amusement as she crossed her legs on the couch and sat up straight, “True enough. Daddy never taught me that first part though.” She smiled and tilted her head.

“Tell me more.”

 

***

 

Sherlock kicked the small red ball he’d left in his mind the day he’d woken up.

“God, what a bloody _mess.”_

He shook his head as he looked about his once beautiful mind palace. The ravages of the flooding had destroyed every part of the building and left his mind watered down and tired.

“You should really learn to clean up after yourself,” a sarcastic voice mumbled from where it sat on the stairway.

“I’ll make sure to keep that in mind,” Sherlock scowled as he glared at the dark-haired man who only smiled at him. “I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

“Oh, I think the jury is still out on that one,” Moriarty hummed with a wry grin as he leaned against the barrister. “Besides, you’re more fun when you’re not frightened- although you do make the funniest faces.”

“Oh _do_ shut up,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked away towards the room he’d left in shambles in his haste.

Dark hair appeared at his side as he began to stack boxes and rearrange the room back into order, “You’re really going to do _work_?”

“I suppose John has rubbed off on me more than I thought,” he replied with a smirk. “Perhaps you should have shot him when you had the chance.”

Moriarty pouted and kicked over a box labelled some date in the 1980’s in frustration, “Well you’re _definitely_ not any fun when you’re depressed. Killing your little pet wouldn’t have served me any purpose in the long run.”

“And shooting yourself did?” Sherlock cocked a brow as he slipped out of his suit jacket and rolled up his light blue sleeves in order to deal with some of the more damp boxes.

The Irishman shrugged and looked towards the ceiling, “Heat of the moment.”

Sherlock hummed his understanding and scooped the contents of one box back into its place before sealing the flaps up with tape.

“You’re certainly afraid of a lot,” Moriarty noted as Sherlock stacked another set of four boxes against the wall.

“No I’m not,” he denied, flicking verdigris eyes back towards him. “I just like to keep the memories of everything I’ve ever been intimidated by. Easier to ignore it that way.”

“ _Whatever_ ,” his companion groaned picking a marker off of the ground and drawing absently on the boxes.

“Why are you even _here_?” Sherlock questioned, resting his hands on his hips and scowling. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Not since you decided to open my door and let me out,” Moriarty noted with a grin. “Now I just get to spend time aggravating you.”

“ _Joy_ ,” Sherlock mumbled sarcastically with a shrug as he finished taping up the last of the boxes in that room and headed towards another one.

“It’s a bit warm in here, don’t you think?” The shorter man hummed, wiping his hand dramatically across his forehead to make his point.

Sherlock gave him a quick glance then shrugged. He was up and around while still recovering and moving boxes; of _course_ he was working up a sweat. Sometimes Moriarty was just an _idiot._

The Irishman scowled at the lack of animation and tried again. “That little girl of yours,” Moriarty hummed as he followed the detective until the taller man spun around irately.

“Don’t speak of her,” he commanded, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh come _on_ ,” he moaned back, leaning up against the door frame as Sherlock leaned down to fix up more containers. “You’ve become so _boring_ in your old age! At least _she’s_ interesting.”

“Yes and this conversation is _dull_ , so if you’ll excuse me,” Sherlock sniffed pointedly stalked back out of the room and towards the main corridor.

“You won’t even give me the benefit of conversation?” Moriarty moaned comically as he followed with light steps. “Oh dear, all work and no play certainly makes Sherlock a dull boy.”

Ire burned in Sherlock’s chest at Moriarty’s tormenting, but he steeled himself and turned about, “What do you want to know about her, then?”

Moriarty smiled, “Oh, you know- the fun stuff. What’s her favourite colour? What does she do on weekends? How many times do you think she’s been _fucked_ by that boyfriend of hers?”

The Irish lilt was silence by a solid fist against his cheek and Sherlock’s cheeks flushed with irritation.

“Oh?” Jim smiled, his hand cupping his cheek delicately. “Touchy topic, huh?”

“If I believed in folly, I would wish that you swallow your tongue,” Sherlock snapped, lifting his chin and turning about and slamming the door behind him.

He sighed long and heavy until a voice as grating as a mosquito’s buzz penetrated his ear, “Oh come now, darling! Don’t be so cross; I’m just _curious_! Say- I wonder how many times she’s been roggered in your own house while you _were there_! Isn’t that a fun thought?”

Indeed, it was _not_ actually an entertaining thought and Sherlock growled, “Go _away_!”

“Oh, Sherlock-”

“ _Go!_ ” He bellowed, spinning around and pounding his fist against the door. If he were to be stuck in his own mind until John woke him again, he would _not_ be stuck with such an irksome presence.

The detective held his breathe for a moment, waiting for the snide reply, but soon found that there was none to be heard. Furrowing his brow, he slowly opened the door and peered into the room he’d just vacated.

A long disused fireplace sat unloved on the far wall and dust and water damage sprinkled the wooden floors, however, the madman that had been tormenting him was nowhere to be found.

Sherlock shook his head as he stepped in and looked warily behind the door, “Huh. Curiouser and curiouser.”

No cackle responded to his voice and no breath save his own greeted his ears. Once again, Sherlock found himself totally and undeniably _alone._

 

***

 

John jerked awake; the crick in his neck reminding him how much he missed his bed, and blearily searched for the source of his untimely consciousness.

Dumb fingers tapped awkwardly at the screen of his mobile and he cleared his throat, “What? Uh- sorry, hello?”

Instead of a voice replying to his question, the phone continued to screech until he pulled it away and squinted at the flashing screen.

 

_ALARM: 05:00_

_Press Anywhere to Snooze_

_Slide to Unlock_

 

“Oh, bugger,” he murmured, scrubbing his sleeve at his face and sliding a worn thumb across the glass; ending the infernal whine of his mobile. Once the room was reacquainted with silence, John stretched and groaned; wanting for all the world to be young enough again to sleep on desert sand and still be able to function once he woke.

He set the phone down on his husband’s bedside table and stood to his feet, giving the room the daily once-over. White walls, white sheets, white halls, white equipment; _God_ , he was sick of the colour _white_. All he longed for was the obnoxious wallpaper with detestable yellow paint and hundreds of books scattered on the floor, sprinkled with “eloquent” dust that made him sneeze. John imagined he’d give his right arm for such a luxury at that point, but settled instead for the imagery inside his head.

“Morning,” he huffed, running a hand through his short hair before eerie silence greeted his pleasantry.

John flicked his eyes to where his daughter had been holding up and was momentarily alarmed before he remembered her taking off in the middle of the night, but something else was missing; something was _wrong_ and the _wrongness_ of it pulled at John’s gut. He stepped towards the door and flicked the switch, finding with no small sense of dread the stillness of the man in the bed.

“Sherlock, hey, are you all right?” He questioned softly, creasing his brow at the pallor of his skin. Well, of most of it. Contrary to the rest of his body, his husband’s cheeks glowed like crimson beacons, accompanied by brightly painted ears that hid beneath his dark hair.

“Sherlock?” John tried again before touching the tip of his fingers to Sherlock’s neck.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He hollered as he jerked his hand back and his heart began to race. “Oh, Christ! What-?” John traced the line from where the temperature gauge was pasted to his husband’s chest back to the machine, only to find with dismay that the wire had been dislodged minutely, resulting in a dangerous misreading.

With his heart racing, he jammed the line back in and the machine began to ring with an alarm, alerting everyone within earshot that Sherlock’s fever had escalated once more into fatal territory.

“Sherlock, wake up!” John hollered, patting his blistering cheek before pressing the call button and jerking the sheets from his skin. “Sherlock, come on! Wake up!”

His husband’s head lolled to the side and dark scarlet trickled from his nostril down onto his lip, causing the doctor to pale and his gut to lurch.

If his hands shook while he poured cold water from the sink onto Sherlock’s scarf that had been folded up on his chair, he made no notice of it, and if his teeth chattered at his husband’s skin practically steaming from the application of cold water, John was none the wiser.

“Doctor Watson!”

John hardly heard Sherlock’s primary physician call out his name as several nurses rushed past him with iced packs and- _why are there so many people? Jesus, Sherlock, could you just-_

“Doctor Watson, move back!”

_Words, Watson- pay attention-_

“Doctor, you _need_ to move!”

John shook his head, dispelling the weary shock and did as instructed.

_Focus. He’ll be okay. He’s just dramatic- has to make a show of everything._

A high pitched droning filled the air and the doctor’s shoes melted to the ground; stubbornly faceting him in his place.

“His BP is dropping!”

“Come on, Mr. Holmes; you’ve got to keep fighting. We can’t do it for you.”

In a daze, he watched the familiar practices take place. His hands had moved in similar ways more times than he cared to count; his voice had uttered similar words, so why did all seem so surreal?

He held his breath and stood still against the wall; as unobtrusive as possible and just… _listened._

_“Come on, Mr. Holmes!”_

_“BP: ninety over sixty.”_

_“Doctor, forty degrees.”_

_“Eighty over fifty-five.”_

_“If we don’t get him down-”_

_“Mr. Holmes, you’ve got people waiting on you; don’t let them down.”_

_“Seventy-five over fifty.”_

_“Heart rate is dropping!”_

As a child, John had questioned what heroes must have felt like. People such as Superman would stick their heels in the ground and let a train travelling at full speed batter against them; yet they would stand unwavering and prevent the locomotive from shooting off of the tracks. But how did that _feel_? Standing still with the pressure of a full-size train buffeting their bodies without being able to say a word to express such pain?

_Probably like this,_ he imagined as he buzz of nurses continued to swarm over his husband.

 

_Most definitely like this_.


	36. C'est La Vie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And 2nd update! Merry Christmas to those who Celebrate it! Thank you again for reading!

Sherlock dusted a hand over the fireplace and crinkled his nose. Although no fire was in the hearth, his body felt warm, like a fire was radiating from his chest down into his extremities.

_How odd._

A sudden shiver in the foundation of his mind caused him to grip onto the mantle for support as he looked around.

“What…?”

“You’re dying.”

The detective spun around and snarled at the dark haired man who stood smiling behind him, “What do you _mean_?”

The ground shuddered, yet Moriarty, who had finally reappeared after their debacle with no less venom than before, remained motionless as if his feet were nailed to the ground.

“You’re _dying_ , Sherlock,” he hummed with a wry grin. “How does it feel? To know your last breaths are coming?”

“That can’t be,” the detective countered, gripping the mantle for support as another tremor vibrated through the ground. “I was getting _better_.”

“The quiet before the storm, I’m afraid,” Moriarty smiled, clicking a heel against the ground. “Shame really. You’re going to go and leave Little Johnny all alone again, aren’t you?”

The dull heat Sherlock had felt settling in his chest began to creep around his body until it felt like the fire that should have been in the hearth was residing inside his own torso, “Shut _up_!”

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, love.” Moriarty clicked another heel against the ground as a cool gust washed through the empty room, causing the Irishman to grin. “Oh, won’t you look at that? They’re trying to _save_ you.” He stuck out his tongue like a petulant child, “How _noble._ ”

“I’m not dying,” Sherlock reminded himself before he felt the familiar warmth of life drip from his nostril to his lip. He touched a fingertip to verify its existence and when crimson greeted his request, he felt his legs tremble with the veracity of the undeniable reality: he _was_.

“Oh come now, don’t be so melodramatic,” the smaller man groaned, shoving his fists in his pockets. “I mean, we all knew this was how it was going to end. In my humble opinion, you look pretty good for someone who’s meant to be dead anyways. I mean, come _on_ \- you’ve had a good life! I mean, better than I bet you thought you were gonna get; don’t you think it’s time to let go?”

Black eyes creased in faux sympathy, “It’s only going to get worse, you know. Wouldn’t you like to die before you get old? Your little pet is getting old, too, you know. Do you _really_ want to have to watch him die?”

Another shiver wracked through the foundation and Sherlock leaned against the mantle, staring at his own painted hand; flicking his eyes up as Moriarty shrugged and clicked a heel against the ground again.

“I mean, it’s up to you,” he mumbled. “You can just let it go. Let it all go- the hurt, the nightmares, the _fear_. Just snap your fingers and _poof_!” He waved his hands and grinned, “It’s all paradise in hell. What do you say?”

When Sherlock said nothing in reply, Moriarty just sighed and turned his back, “Then do it for your precious baby girl.”

“What do you _mean_?” He finally snapped, feeling his hackles stand up on edge.

Dark brows lifted as the Irishman shrugged, “I mean the girl doesn’t _really_ see you as a father- she practically told you so herself. Just let it go so she can be with her _real_ father; not some arrogant _hack_!”

_She never meant it like that_ , he reminded himself as Moriarty’s lip twisted into a dark grin.

“Regardless of your opinion on the matter,” the other man mumbled; his voice sinister and low, “the fact is nonetheless true.”

Another shudder nearly knocked Sherlock from his feet, yet Moriarty stood poised and ready to ask his final question.

“So,” he hummed, watching as Sherlock pulled himself back up straight and defiantly planted his feet.

“What’s it going to be?”

 

***

 

A small creak in the wooden floors was all it took to wake her up. Immediately Evelyn was on edge and searching blearily through the darkness for the source of it.

Abigail snoozed on her father’s plaid chair, a blanket draped over her weary body, a meter or so away and it was almost impossible to notice the practically imperceptible difference in the air, but Evelyn _did_. She readied herself mentally for a moment before jerking up straight and wrapping her fingers around the telly remote; instantly chucking it at the shadow in the dark and grinning when she heard the soft groan as it knocked someone’s temple and sent them to the ground in a heap.

The American stirred at the sounds and dark lashes fluttered in the dimness until something that smelled suspiciously like leather cupped around her mouth and muffled any desire she had to scream out.

“Abigail!” Evelyn hollered, jerking to her feet and hopping over the coffee table to strike her friend’s captor but soon found a heavy grip on her scruff that was immediately replaced with the strong grip of not one, but two very strong individuals.

“Let me go!” She snapped, kicking out and struggling with all of her might against her unseen assailants. “Unhand me!”

“Oh _do_ stop being so histrionic, Evelyn. It is terribly unbecoming of a lady.”

Evelyn jerked her head up and ceased all struggling at the familiar voice, crinkling her nose, “Uncle My?”

 The lights flicked on and Evelyn cringed at the abrasive illumination; blinking away her sleep as she attempted to focus on her uncle across the room. Now that the lights elucidated the truth, she was able to see the black shadow that gripped her friend tight was taller than her father by far and her uncle’s umbrella clicked in its distinguishable way as he walked into the middle of the room.

“Uncle My?” She asked again, jerking her arms away from her captors and standing up straight. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of _you_ ,” he stated blandly, his pale blue eyes wearily mulling her over.

Evelyn cocked a brow before she actually watched the sluggishness of her uncle’s blinking and the pallor of his skin. _Bloodshot eyes, minor tremor in his fingers, slow inhalations, slight shivering._ Her uncle was a phenomenal actor- potentially one of the greatest- but this was even more than he could overcorrect: he was entirely _exhausted._

“Uncle Mycroft, are you all right?” Her voice was soft and worried as the man visibly stiffened at her question.

“I am quite all right, thank you,” Mycroft stubbornly insisted. “I-”

“You look like hell,” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes and stepping forward.

“Well you’ve bloody well put me _through_ hell!” He aberrantly snapped, causing her to jerk back a bit in astonishment.

A muffled holler reminded the young woman of her American companion and she gestured to her, “Uh- why don’t you let her go? Look, I don’t know what I did-”

“How about vanishing into thin air with a terrorist whilst my brother is lying on his death bed?” He barked, lifting a pale brow in challenge while Evelyn lifted her palms in a placating manner.

“Okay! Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any more trouble. I’m sorry.” Her navy eyes to the pale teal seat to Mycroft’s left and she gently gestured to it. “Why don’t you sit down before you _fall_ down?”

The thought obviously crossed his mind to defy her request, but an almost imperceptible sway quickly changed his mind and he perched on the edge of his brother’s chair, glaring at his niece.

“Can you let her go?” Evelyn questioned quietly, wary of her uncle’s atypical volatile reactions. “She won’t run; I promise.” She exchanged a knowing glance with her friend who nodded her compliance.

Mycroft considered it for hardly a moment before waving off the dark-clad man who automatically released the American and sent her sliding to the floor in surprise. Dark eyes lifted in obvious fear of the man who sat before her and the American clamored to her feet; placing herself closer to Evelyn and _away_ from everyone else in the room.

“Leave us,” he harshly ordered, causing the three goons to lift their unconscious companion from the floor and disappear from the room and down the stairwell.

As soon as the three of them were left alone, Mycroft slouched into the teal chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Evelyn, do you even _realize_ -”

“I know,” she lowered her eyes and bit her cheek. “I’m sorry, but look- you can’t-”

“I will do as I _damn well please_ if it keeps you _safe_ , Evelyn Mary Watson!” He growled, pinning her in place with his pale eyes.

“Uncle My,” she said softly as she knelt in front of him and rested a hand on his knee, “I’m _fine._ Look at me: a few bumps and bruises and a bloody awful haircut, but I am _fine_. You needn’t worry about me right now.”

“Says the _child_ who disappeared with a _terrorist-_ ”

“Now you wait a minute!” The American snapped, aggressively jerking forward as if aching for a fight. Her dark brows lowered and her voice became gravelly and harsh, “I am _no ‘terrorist’!_ I am an _American citizen_ who got caught up in something bigger than I anticipated. I made a _mistake_!”

Mycroft’s lip twitched with ire and he struggled to keep his voice calm, “A mistake that proved fatal for not only Colonel Moran but for one of my own agents and potentially for my brother who has still not found his way to recuperation.”

Abigail blinked as the elder Holmes’ words settled on her ears, “I… I never thought-”

“Truer words were never spoken, Miss White!” Mycroft suddenly snapped, causing her to jerk back in alarm. “You never _thought_! And for that _stupidity,_ my family is paying the price!”

Abigail shook her head and swallowed thickly, “I never meant-”

Mycroft lifted a brow and his lips twitched, “Contrary to your supposed intentions, Miss White, you have still violated _volumes_ of code- English, American, and otherwise- which would give me more than enough cause to incarcerate you for the remainder of your natural life.”

“Whoa!” Evelyn placed herself amidst the feud and glared at her uncle. “Now that’s _enough!_ ” She waved her hand at her friend and shook her head; blonde strands falling in her face, “You and I both know she never intended for this to happen.  We both know this would have taken place with or without her. If she hadn’t accepted Moran’s offer, _someone else_ would have!”

Mycroft scoffed, “As that is yet to be seen, Evelyn, I must err on the side of caution and treat her as the lowlife criminal that she is-”

“I am no ‘ _lowlife’_ , you pompous asswipe!” Abigail growled, her tanned skin flushing with ire. “If you’re gonna lock me up, _so be it_ , but don’t you _dare_ call me what I am not. I made a _mistake_ and I am _sorry_! Now, I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I _don’t_ deserve your degradation for a crime I didn’t commit!”

“I will do as I please with or without your consent, Miss White-”

“Well _that’s_ familiar. Must be something in the water,” Abigail snarled and Evelyn’s heart went out for her.

“-and you _will_ serve your time for the crimes you have committed.”

“So what’s with all the pomp and circumstance, then?” Abigail barked flippantly, defiantly sticking out her wrists. “Go ahead! Stick me in some cuffs and be done with it! Why have a whole blowout if you’re just gonna drag me off anyways? What? Is this some fucking power play?” She smiled and lifted a brow, “Oh, I always _knew_ you were a kinky son of a-”

“True, it would give me no greater pleasure than to see you bound and behind bars-”

“ _Enough!”_ Evelyn screeched, directing the spotlight on her once more. She pointed at Abigail then back to Mycroft, “ _You_ need to watch your mouth and _you_ are _not_ helping!”

“Evelyn-”

“Just shut _up!_ ” The blonde girl hollered, pinching the bridge of her nose and holding out a hand insistently. “Just… _give_ me a second. First, you drag me out of bed then you both start World War Three, just _give_ me a second to collect my thoughts!”

Evelyn sighed and _thankfully_ the room remained silent, save for her own labored breathing.

 

“Okay, let’s try this again,” she stated softly, opening her eyes and lifting her chin authoritatively. She lifted a fair brow at Abigail, “ _You_ will play nice and keep the vulgarity at a minimum.” She then looked back to Mycroft and did the same, “And _You_ will listen to what we have to say. _Please._ ”

The exhausted man in the chair sighed and waved her off without actually agreeing, yet she took it as such, “Okay then. Uncle Mycroft, you’ve been harsher with Abigail than I have ever seen you with anyone before. Why?”

“I do not need to justify my actions to-”

“ _Please_ , Uncle Mycroft!” Evelyn pleaded. “She is my _friend_ and she’s been sucked into a world she never wanted part of. _Please_ tell me why you’re hell-bent on locking her up.”

“She is a liability,” Mycroft admitted, flicking his eyes to her. “She was able to weasel her way into your life and is now a cause for national security concern.”

Evelyn tilted her head, “That does not warrant a death sentence.”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, “I have not implied that I would have her outright _murdered,_ just-”

“Life in prison is worse than death, you _know_ that!” Evelyn bit, narrowing her eyes. “If you’re going to punish her, _fine_ , but be _fair_. The punishment should fit the crime.”

“Exactly my sentiments, Evelyn,” Mycroft sighed. “And as one who has committed some of the most heinous crimes against not only our country, but our family-”

“She has done no such thing and you _know it!_ ” Evelyn huffed, cheeks flushing.

“Please, sir,” Abigail finally inserted, stepping closer to the two. “All I want is to go _home_. I will _never_ return to the country or even this _continent_ if you just let me go _home_.” She gestured to Evelyn then to herself, “You’re doing this to keep your family safe; I was only doing the same and I am _sorry_ for all of this trouble, but I will not be sorry for keeping my family out of harm’s way.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply before the door opened and the tallest of the agents walked in uninvited.

“Did I not instruct you to stay outside?” Mycroft shifted, lifting a stern brow in question before the man placed himself at Mycroft’s side and whispered something in his ear.

Evelyn tried her best to eavesdrop, but the back of the man’s head gave no indication of what was being said. Then her uncle began to react to the news.

“Secure her,” he said blandly, his face paling considerably and his voice void of any inflection save fatigue. 

The man stood and immediately wrapped Abigail’s arms behind her back, much to her dismay, “Hey! Let me go! Get off of me, you bastard!”

“Uncle My, what are you doing?” Evelyn hollered; her eyes wide with concern as her uncle stood to his feet.

“It’s your father,” he mumbled, straightening out his coat and Evelyn could see the trembling in the fabric of his trousers as if his legs were struggling to hold him up.

“My father? What about him?” Evelyn begged, coming close and grabbing Mycroft’s arm.

“He’s dying,” he said plainly, as if it were an issue with the weather. “I have just been informed he will not make it through the morning, so we should make haste to say our goodbyes if you would like to do so.”

Evelyn jerked her hand back and shook her head, “That… that doesn’t make sense. He was fine last night.”

“Yes and now he’s not,” Mycroft insisted, his voice far too steady for the trembling that was obvious in his body. “And the longer we debate this, the more you waste of what little time he has left.”

“This… it doesn’t make sense,” she tried again, running a hand through her short hair. “That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.”

“When are you gonna _grow up?”_

Evelyn jerked her head towards her friend whose head hung in defeat. She smirked mirthlessly and shook her head, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, “You have _got_ to grow up, Evelyn. Things don’t go the way we want them to- _that’s life_. People die, dreams are crushed, and lives are ruined. That’s just the way things _are_.”

Evelyn shook her head in disbelief, “But-”

Abigail sniffed indignantly and shrugged; narrowing her dark eyes at her friend, “What? Do you think you’re _special?_ That someone up there has got your best interests at heart? Just get over yourself, Evelyn. Life sucks and then you die- that’s just how it goes.”

“Mind your tongue,” Mycroft scolded, his lip lifting in a snarl as Evelyn’s heart pattered heavily in her chest.

“But that doesn’t make sense!” She suddenly yelled, gripping her hair and cowering backwards. “This is my fault. This is all my fault.”

“Enough with such nonsense,” Mycroft commanded, reaching out for his niece who jerked away from him.

“No!” She hugged herself and shook her head, backing away from him, “This is my fault! I did this!”

“No, you didn’t,” he insisted, shaking his head and extending his hand again. “Now come. Let us say our last words-”

“No!” Warmth began to slide down her hot cheeks and if Mycroft had ever attempted to envision what someone would look like as the closed themselves off and virtually imploded, he would have envisioned something rather like this.

“Evelyn, love-”

“I don’t want- this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen!”

“Evelyn, I am _sorry_ ,” Mycroft said it with the trepidation of one whose mouth did not form those words often. “But please, you must make a concession and come with me now or you will forfeit any chance you have.”

Fair brows pursed and Evelyn choked on a sob as her uncle pleaded, “Please, Evelyn. Do this for me.”

He gestured out to her again and repeated, “ _Please.”_

 

***

 

What does one say to one who will soon no longer take breath? Are they meant to apologize? Say “ _I’m sorry_ ” as if it were entirely their fault? Not that this _wasn’t entirely her fault_ \- but was it bad etiquette to do so? Was one _really_ supposed to spill their heart out on the side of a hospital bed for the sake of “having closure” or would it make more sense to just remain silent and hope that their love was conveyed throughout their life because _honestly_ , how could one _really_ convey how much they feel in a few sentences before one passes?

_God I hate WHITE._

Evelyn’s stomach churned at the horrendous colour and she pulled her knees to her chest as she watched Sherlock’s lids flutter back and forth in his sleep.

He was _drenched._ Both in sweat and water, she’d assumed, yet his skin still felt hot to the touch- though soon it would lose its heat altogether.

“Eevee?”

Evelyn slowly lifted her head and found her father, eyes dark with despondency and exhaustion, half-smiling at her.

“All right?” he asked softly, resting a hand on her shoulder.

She sighed and slowly shook her head before lowering it and looking back at the pale figure in the sheets. Illumination was not benevolent to his appearance, and the detective looked more dead than alive as it was.

Illness does such terrible things to people and their bodies- perhaps she should have gone into medicine like her Daddy instead of following in her Dad’s footsteps. Then _maybe_ she would have been able to actually _help_ people instead of getting them killed.

“Yeah, me either,” John mumbled before clearing his throat, rubbing a thumb over her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her temple. “But we will be. I’ll always take care of you, little bird and we’ll make it through this; I promise.”

“I don’t _want_ to ‘make it through this’. I _want_ this to not be happening at all,” she growled softly, her voice hardly making noise past her lips.

“I know, love,” John whispered, resting his forehead against her temple for a moment. “Trust me, I know.”

“This is _stupid_ ,” she spat, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock before jerking up out of her seat and crossing her arms. “He’s not going to hear us and then he’s just going to _die_. Why should we be around to _watch_ it?”

“If you don’t want to be here, you _can_ leave,” John stated softly, reaching out and pulling her into an embrace. “But we both know you won’t. Bloody Watson blood keeps us hanging on till the end, doesn’t it?”

Evelyn wrapped her arms around John’s chest and pressed her face into his jumper. It smelled stale, like clothes that have just come out of storage for the winter, yet it wasn’t _that_ scent that broke her heart.

It was gunpowder and tea.

Daddy had always smelled like gunpowder and tea: hard and soft; cruel and kind; bitter and sweet. Dad had taught her to smell things that way. To smell not only what is present- gunpowder and tea- but also what lay underneath; what the smells _meant_.

Gunpowder and tea: an individual who was strong, yet kind; someone unafraid to pull a trigger, yet cautious to say a harsh word; someone whose voice could cut like sharp steel, yet heal like soft, white gauze.

Damn her Daddy for smelling like gunpowder and tea and _damn_ her Dad for teaching her to understand more than she needed to.

“It’s okay, darling,” John soothed shakily, resting his cheek on her temple. “It’s going to be okay.”

She choked on a sob before she even realized she was crying into her father’s shoulder. _How pitiful_.

She jerked herself away and scrubbed at her face, dispelling the evidence from view before John gripped her shoulder and lifted her chin with a finger.

“Evelyn, love, it’s all right to cry,” he smiled softly and wiped the cuff of his jumper across her hot cheek. “Not all tears are bad.”

“Yes, well _these_ are!” She snapped, finding with no lack of irritation that her voice shook. She pointed at her face and sobbed again, “These aren’t _sad_ tears, Daddy. They’re tears… tears of _defeat_! If I hadn’t been so _stupid_ , none of this-”

“Shhh,” John hushed her with a finger to her lips. Navy eyes settled on her and wiped away a renegade tear with a weathered thumb, “This is not your fault. I know you think it is, but it’s really, _really_ not.”

“He had to go back for you because he took me out first!” She countered, her voice choking on a sob again and blonde fringe falling in her face. “If I hadn’t been there-”

“Yes and if Hitler had been accepted to art school, almost seven million people would have kept living,” John stated sternly, earning her attention. “ _If_ does a lot of things, Evelyn, but it never does anything good. Doesn’t hang your heart on _if_.”

“I just want him to come back home with us,” she mumbled, sounding too much like a weeping child for her liking.

“So do I, love, but I… I don’t think that’s a possibility.” He thinned his lips and looked over her shoulder at his husband, “Evelyn, he’s tired and we just have to accept that as fact. There’s nothing more _we_ can do, so… try and come to peace with it.”

Evelyn sniffled and wiped her face on her sleeve before looking up at John again. Mycroft had said his goodbyes in a language Evelyn had never heard and Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly had paid their respects not long after and had departed, but she had never seen _John_ say anything.

“Aren’t you going to… say anything?” She asked softly, sniffing as he shook his head.

“He knows everything I have to say and I’ve said it all before. He hates repetition, so I’ll spare him,” he ended with a kind smile that was infectious even with the mood of the room.

“It is weird to talk to him like he’s not already gone?”

John shook his head and kissed her cheek, “Absolutely not. Say what you need to. I’ll give you some space.”

He gripped her shoulder almost as if he was reminding himself to have strength then disappeared through the door whence he came, leaving her alone once again.

God, she hated being alone.

 

***

 

“Won’t you just _die_ already?”

Moriarty scowled as Sherlock laid face up, staring at the ceiling, focusing on keeping his lungs functioning as long as possible.

“Come _on_ , just go ahead and _die_! You’re taking the fun right out of this, you know.”

For once in his life- or what was left of it- Sherlock remained silent and just listened.

He’d heard Mycroft’s promises to keep “His Watsons” safe and well-cared for as long as John would allow him to and that Evelyn would want for naught. He’d heard Lestrade’s wishes of more time spent as friends instead of acquaintances and Molly- God, Molly’s hurt worst of all. She didn’t _say_ almost anything. She didn’t even _cry_. She just kissed his head and said she’d never been prouder in her life to call him her friend than this very moment.

_Who says nonsense like that?_

“Just _die already!_ ” Moriarty groaned, flopping on the floor next to him and beginning to pick at a button on Sherlock’s cuff. “You listened to all of their sappy, dappy words, can’t you just _croak_?”

“If only to spite you, I would live for eternity,” Sherlock whispered, quickly finding how taxing words were on what was left of his energy.

_“Why should we be around to watch it?”_

_Evelyn_ , his mind supplied; the familiar voice was strained and shaking. _God, she must be distraught._

“ _They’re tears of defeat!”_

Comically, Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at the sound. His daughter was a myriad of things: a drama queen, being one of them.

There were then rumblings of low conversation he couldn’t quite make out before the familiar voice echoed in his mind again.

“ _Okay then. What am I supposed to say?_ ”

Sherlock found he honestly had no answer for it. Even if he’d had the ability to express one, he would have no words to alleviate her concerns.

“Dad?”

_That_ voice hadn’t echoed, and Sherlock suddenly felt a very light weight on his gut. He jerked his head up and to his astonishment a sight he’d not seen in over a decade greeted him.

“Evelyn?”

The small child cried out, her blonde hair in ringlet pigtails and her cheeks as full and pink as ever. The child in his lap couldn’t be any older than three or four, yet her lexis was far beyond her years. “I love you more than I could ever express in words alone, Dad. I don’t… have the vocabulary for what I want to say.”

“That’s… It’s all right, little one,” he mumbled, sitting up and letting his arm snake around her like he’d done when she was this small.

“Daddy might have taught me right and wrong,” the child began, her voice a high pitched bell that jingled more than it spoke, “but you taught me what to _do._ You taught me more than I think I have the capacity to imagine.”

“Well I’m your father, darling,” Sherlock soothed, running a hand over the light curls. “It’s rather in the job description. Fine print and red tape gets you every time.”

The infant in his arms suddenly hugged tight to his chest and mumbled into his neck, “And yet all that you taught me… I don’t know what to do _now_.”

“Oh darling,” he hummed, resting a large hand on her back and holding her tight to him.

“What _am_ I supposed to do?”

The babe leaned back and in her place was unexpectedly an older looking child, perhaps around eight.

_No, nine,_ Sherlock decided after finding her missing her top left front tooth. _Certainly nine._

The child shook her head and where pigtails had been wrapped in red bows, the fabric slipped away and golden curls flowed down, touching her shoulders, “I want to do what’s right, Dad, but I don’t know what that _is._ Certainly you can’t just tell me to give up and walk away; to just _get over it_.”

Sherlock tilted head and shrugged, watching as the nine-year-old narrowed her eyes at him, “Well, yes, I suppose that _is_ the gist of it.”

“Well that’s _wrong_!” She suddenly hollered while she stood, golden hair failing into her face.

“Well she is certainly feisty, isn’t she?” The Irishman commented, dark eyes following the girl who suddenly seemed much taller than she had been at nine-years old.

When she turned back around, Sherlock shook his head at the peculiarity of it all. Now she most certainly looked as she did when she had had her second intermingling with Moriarty and fell out onto the roof. She held out her palms and they bled, the same as they had that very night, “Dad, I’ve screwed up so much. I keep trying to be good and do well and I keep screwing up, but you always make me feel like I’m not _alone_.”

Sherlock used more energy that he’d liked to sit up straight and hold out a hand towards her, “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding. Let me wrap those.”

She jerked her hands out and crimson dripped onto the floor, “But now you’re going to _leave_! You’re going to just _go_ and leave me, leave _Daddy!_ Why is _that_ how this is supposed to be?”

Sherlock stiffened with the effort, but forced himself onto his knees and reached out for her again, “Please, love, you’re hurt. Let Dad fix it.”

“You _always_ fixed things, Dad!” The twelve-year-old scolded, rubbing the blood on her jeans and then through her hair irately. “Even if you made messes and Daddy cleaned them up, you always _fixed_ things for people looking for closure, for us- Dad, you always made things right again- even if not in the way I wanted it.”

“Hey! Get back down!” The Irishman growled, as Evelyn wrapped her bloodied fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and dragged him up.

“Evelyn, please!” He hollered, immediately finding the weight too much for his weak body to bear. “Let me go!”

As soon as his knees buckled, though, she wrapped an arm around his torso and pulled his arm over her shoulder, “Daddy says I’m just supposed to ‘let you go’, like you’re some balloon I’m supposed to let go off into the air never to be seen again, but I don’t want to, and I’m not going to.”

Her legs stretched and soon blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders and over Sherlock’s arm, almost hiding her face from view. She jerked her head to the side, forcing the curls behind her ear and soon a more familiar face replaced the young one he’d just looked at.

The detective’s heart pattered in his chest and he felt the wind knocked from his chest at the beauty of his daughter’s strength, “Evelyn, love, I don’t-”

Sherlock twisted his head as he heard his rival holler, “Sherlock! You’re supposed to be _dying_!”

“I’m not willing to give up on you yet, Dad,” Evelyn shook her head and gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly within her own. “You’ve never given up on me. Even when I wanted to give up on myself, you and Daddy were there to tell me it was okay, and I still need that. I still need _you_.”

“Put him down you little _slut_ ,” Moriarty called, scrambling to his feet and scowling.

Sherlock watched as Evelyn took a step forward and pulled on his body. She smiled and he felt her grip around his torso tighter, “If you die, you’ll die and I will watch them put the cloth over your face then, but I will _not_ say goodbye, because I won’t give up on you.”

She stepped forward and dragged Sherlock with her, her body possessing more strength than he remembered her having and he painstakingly stepped forward himself. As his foot made contact with the ground, white lights flashed and he lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the glare.

“I love you, Dad,” Evelyn mumbled, gripping his hand tightly, apparently unaware of the bright light flashing in their faces. “I’ll be here.”

Navy eyes creased in a genuine smile and Evelyn made another step forward, slowly followed by Sherlock’s own.

Each step felt like a mile and Sherlock could hardly take the weight of his own body on his heels, and he slumped forward, only to be caught by his adult daughter’s arms. Heavy lids sat on his eyes and made it difficult for him to focus on her face, but he forced himself to do so and she smiled, pulling him up again, “Come on, Dad. Do this for me.”

“Leave him alone!” The Irishman screamed, dark eyes wild and his voice strained with true aggression. He made as if to pull the detective back to the ground, but with the slightest twitch of her wrist, the girl sent him back towards the far wall.

He pounded his fist against the fireplace stone and screamed, “Let him go! Let him go, you bitch!”

If he had had any energy to spare, he would have admonished the fiend for such vulgarity, but as it was, he could hardly keep standing.

“Evelyn, I’m trying- slow down,” he mumbled into her hair as he leaned against her and stepped forward, towards the immensely bright light in the doorway.

_God, if I have to go, why do I have to go in as cliché a way as this?_

Long fingers gripped around Sherlock’s thin waist and pulled him tight to her side and Sherlock found that he could hardly breathe for the thunderous beating of his heart.

“I need you,” Evelyn said softly, smiling at him as he took another harrowing step. “Daddy needs you, too.”

She shook her head and whispered as she smiled, “We’re not giving up on you, yet.”

 

***

 

John ran his hand through his hair once more and sighed as he leaned against the door.

_Keep it together, Watson. Keep it together._

“John.”

He jerked his eyes up and was greeted with his brother-in-law’s haggard visage.

“Mycroft? Christ, you look horrid- I mean, it’s understandable, but you look _ill_.”

The politician lifted a brow, but it seemed that was the extent of the effort he was willing to give John’s concerns, “You should make acquaintances with a mirror yourself.”

John half-smiled and shook his head, “I might crack it.” He then smiled at the girl who was handcuffed, yet unrestrained, next to him, “Abigail. How are you, love?”

“Well better than not, I suppose,” she shrugged, then gestured to her wrists. “I’ve had prettier bracelets, but I’m starting to get fond of them, I think.”

John chuckled and then lifted a brow at Mycroft, “You’re going to let her go home, Mycroft.”

The politician opened his mouth to retort before the doctor scowled, “Mycroft, you can’t punish her for Sherlock’s… for his…” He exhaled and lowered his face for a moment before trying again, “This isn’t her fault and I want her on a plane back to the States as soon as possible. If I have to smuggle her out of this country myself, by God I will do it. And for God’s sakes get those bloody things off her wrists!”

The American immediately brightened and the smile that had become a stranger to her face finally reappeared, “Mr. Watson-”

“John, we have more pressing matters I’m afraid,” the politician interrupted before John sighed and knocked his head against the doorframe.

“Ah yes, _how_ could I forget?”

He then shrugged and lowered his gaze as Mycroft begrudgingly unclasped the metal around Abigail’s hands, “Christ, what am I going to do now? Last time I asked that Sherlock came swooping in.” He scoffed, “Now what?”

If the elder Holmes was about to offer him genuine condolences, John would never know for it was just then that Evelyn pried the door open.

John jerked himself from the door and cleared his throat, “Sweetheart, are you-”

“Daddy, something’s going on,” she interrupted, her face kempt and clean as if she had not wept a tear.

Immediately intrigued, Mycroft pursed his lips, “What?”

“I-” She shook her head, “I don’t know. I was talking and then his hands started twitching.”

John frowned and rested a hand on her shoulder, “Evelyn, I don’t-”

“Daddy, it’s not just a _twitch_ ,” she countered, navy eyes lit with hope. “He was doing this.”

She flicked her thumb towards herself and smiled even as John furrowed his brow.

“He’s telling me to _wait_ , Daddy!” She grinned, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tight. “He said _wait_!”

Instantly, John’s heart sunk. Not only was he heartbroken, but now his daughter would be twice as much so when Sherlock didn’t come through with this non-existent message, “Darling, please-”

Something plastic clattered against the linoleum and caused John to jerk away from his daughter and delicately peer into the room.

A plastic cup rolled towards him and John stepped into the room with Evelyn close behind, “Sherlock?”

He exchanged a glance with Mycroft who seemed as surprised as he and then stepped closer, not quite sure if he dared to put any faith into his daughter’s words. The tan cup finished its rolling near Evelyn’s feet and John flicked his eyes up to the pale fingers that had jiggled the tray at the side of his bed.

“Sherlock?” He asked aloud, clearing his throat after it cracked. He meant to ask another question before the meter caught his eye instead, “Your… Your heart… That doesn’t-” He lifted the extended hand and clasped between both of his own for it was _warm_.

Not _hot_ ; not trembling with fever, just… _warm_.

“I don’t-” John muttered breathlessly, navy eyes glistening with the steady beat of the pulse at Sherlock’s wrist. He smiled and was very thankful for the chair Evelyn had left behind for soon his legs could hardly bear his own weight.

“Evelyn, go fetch someone, won’t you?” Mycroft, rested a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder for a moment before flicking his eyes back to John as she did his bidding.

The doctor lifted Sherlock’s hand and rested it against his cheek, if only to feel the natural heat that still resided there.

“Sherlock?” He whispered, leaning into the limp hand, “Are you still there? Please tell me I’m not losing my mind.”

If John had been expecting a verbal response he never received one, however, a single twitch of Sherlock’s ring finger against his cheek sparked new optimism and John could hardly contain the laugh that escaped his lips.

The American- that had been for the most part forgotten- tilted her head into the room and caught a glimpse of John’s expression, warming her through and through; perhaps it _wasn’t_ a lost cause to hope after all.

“Abigail!”

She twisted around to see Evelyn leaded a white coated woman towards the room before suddenly ending with an armful of Englishwoman. She grabbed her tight and _giggled_ before pulling back and grabbing her shoulders.

“Abigail! Don’t you see? Even if he won’t wake up now- he’s not _giving up_! That’s… It’s _wonderful_!”

Abigail couldn’t help but grin as well and gripped her friend back, “Yeah, it really is! But, don’t you think-?”

“Oh, I don’t _care_ ,” she replied. “As long as I get another day and I know he’s _trying_ , I can’t help but be excited.”

The American shook her head before gesturing to doorway, “Get in there then. I’ll be out here.” She then smiled and Evelyn half-thought to take a picture lest she never see it again, “None of the planes will take me anyways!”

The young detective pulled her into another hug before slipping into the room and leaving the American alone in the hallway.

“Merry Christmas, Evelyn,” she mumbled to herself with a grin as she slid down the wall and sat against it. Perhaps her friend would get a bit of good luck instead of misery that holiday.

She smirked, _Sure would set the mood, right?_

 

“Happy friggin’ Christmas.”

 

***

 

“I swear to God, the next bloody person who sticks me with something is going to need this bed more than I do!”

Abigail hadn’t even noticed she’d fallen asleep in the corridor until a voice she hadn’t heard in almost _weeks_ jerked her from her slumbers. She scrubbed at her eyes and forced herself up onto her feet to stretch just as a male nurse (who looked absolutely flustered, indeed) fluttered out of the room with the devil on his heel just before something sounding suspiciously like a cup attacking the door as it swung back in. Curious, she peered in and was greeted by another plastic _something_ flying past her head and out into the hall.

“Would you calm down?” The blonde doctor pressed with no real animosity, as his cheer was more than apparent to anyone in the room.

The detective practically growled at the thought and gestured wildly at the door, “John, these idiots are hardly more than trained monkeys, how _dare_ you subject me to such _incompetence_?”

“Perhaps I should leave then, and let you stew in your own self-pity?”

Sherlock scoffed and coughed slightly into his shoulder, “Oh let’s be honest, John, you won’t leave this hospital room unless you are _dragged_ out, you sentimental sod.”

Abigail grinned at the playful banter and cleared her throat to make her presence known. Immediately, Evelyn jumped to her feet from her chair on the opposite side of Sherlock’s bed and ran to her, grabbing her wrist and dragging her back, “Abigail! Isn’t it wonderful? The infection’s gone- well most of it- and he can go home in a few days as long as he stays well like this!”

“That’s fantastic,” she replied with a smile, nodding her head towards the dark-haired man on the bed. “Mr. Holmes, I’m very glad to see you awake.”

“You and I, _both_ ,” he admitted, gripping John’s hand in his own before stifling a cough into his shoulder again. She had to admit, even with the haggardness, he looked much more _alive_ than he had in days. This man who had helped to save her life was finally on the mend and she couldn’t be happier for it.

Mycroft cleared his throat and flicked his finger across his mobile before sliding it back into his pocket, “Miss White, I believe I have some business to attend to with you. Would you join me outside?”

Evelyn instantly tensed at her side and before she had the opportunity to reply, his niece began to admonish him, “Uncle Mycroft it is _Christmas Eve._ _Surely_ the terror can cease for a single _day_.”

Mycroft, looking himself less dead than the day before as well, smiled his oily politician’s smile and tilted his head, “My dear, I assure you my intentions are of the utmost amiable nature.”

“It’s fine,” the American assured her with a gentle grip of her shoulder. She then flicked her eyes back to the tall politician and narrowed them, “If he tries to kidnap me, I’ll give him a shiner for proof.”

John snorted and Mycroft did his best to contain his mild irritation by smiling and gesturing to the doorway, “If you would, please.”

Evelyn smiled supportively and watched as the two filed out of the room with a careful eye.

“I guess the Grinch comes in black tie as well, doesn’t he?” Abigail scoffed as Mycroft gently shut the door and clasped his hands behind his back. “Although I am _certain_ you’d look better in green.”

“You don’t like me very much,” Mycroft stated plainly.

Abigail snorted and crossed her arms over her chest, “I- ha! Nope! No, I can honestly say that I wouldn’t piss on you to put out a fire.” She shrugged, “Merry Christmas anyways, Scrooge.”

Mycroft smiled knowingly and tilted his head, “Be that as it may, I know I have been-”

“A dick?”

“-rather harsh,” Mycroft finished with a cocked brow and continued, “And have perhaps let you fall by the wayside in the wake of more important matters.”

“Are we having a moment here?” She asked sarcastically, making sure to keep out of arm’s reach _just in case_. “This is adorable really, but Evelyn’s not here to chew you out so just get on with it, yeah?” She jerked her hands towards him and the red lines that served as evidence of her time peeked from the fabric of her sleeves.

Much to her surprise, the man touched his fingertips to her hands and pressed them back to her with a slight smile.

She frowned and immediately crossed her arms over her chest if only to keep her hands away from him as long as possible, “I… I don’t understand.”

“Regardless of your,” Mycroft crinkled his nose, “ _lackluster_ pedigree and your… ill-mannered etiquette, you have in fact proved… _useful_.”

Abigail narrowed her eyes and half-debated signaling for Evelyn before curiosity called her back to the man before her, “All… right?”

“I am well aware of your aspirations in the future, Miss White,” he stated plainly, sliding his hand into his coat pocket.

“I’m sure you are,” she sniffed indignantly, dread pooling in her gut as he pulled a white card and presented it to her.

“I may, one day, have a use for someone of your… _constitution_ ,” he hummed as she accepted the card and traced a hand on the raised ink numbers. “I give you this, but rest assured, if I want you, I will find you.”

The American looked skeptically at the card then back to the politician, backing away slowly, “What is this? What are you trying to pull?”

“Nothing,” he answered plainly, raising his brows. “Think of it as a… peace offering. A compensation for your time.”

“You have a funny way of saying ‘sorry’,” she mumbled more to herself than to the man in the hall.

“I said no such thing,” he countered with an odd grin.

The bite seemed to slip from the girl’s shoulders and her voice became soft, “So… Does this… Does this mean I get to go home now?”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, just yet,” he replied. At her confused expression, Mycroft nodded down the hall and grinned, “Merry Christmas, my dearest terrorist.”

She pursed her brow and slowly turned to see what he was alluding to, but when she did her knees almost gave out beneath her.

A strawberry-blonde-topped teenager ambled from around a corner, seemingly unsure to where she was headed before she made eye contact with her and hollered, “ _Abby!”_

“Stina?” Abigail cupped her hand over her mouth and felt heat creep up her cheeks, even though her feet refused to move. “I don’t…”

A dark haired woman jerked from the same hall and when Abigail caught sight of her, her weight _did_ become too much to bear and she crumpled to her knees with a happy sob.

The young blonde child crossed the distance in a moment’s time and wrapped her tanned arms around her sister and began to laugh, “Abby! I’ve missed you so much!”

“You, too, Junebug,” Abigail’s words were muffled by her sister’s thick coat- one she’d never seen her wear before- and she gripped her tightly to her chest. “Oh my god, I can’t even tell you.”

“Baby girl!” Her mother hollered before she crossed the distance and knelt down at her side and kissed the top of her hair, “Baby, I’ve missed you! Gosh, you look so grown up now.”

The mother looked up and smiled at the tall man with his hands behind his back, “Mr. Holmes, this was a wonderful surprise. Thank you so much.”

Mycroft bowed his head, “Of course, Ms. White. My assistant who is waiting in the car you just vacated will see to your needs during your stay. Now, if you will excuse me.”

The politician lifted his hand to open the door, but was soon covered by a weeping girl who wrapped her arms around his chest and stopped him in his tracks.

She chuckled at herself as she pulled away and began to laugh whole-heartedly at his astonished expression while she wiped her face, “You know, I might pee on you… A little…”

“That’s… _comforting_ to know, I suppose,” he forced out with a pursed brow before nodding towards her again. “I hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”

She nodded and was soon tackled in a bear hug that allowed Mycroft to make his escape.

Evelyn grinned as soon as he shut the door and crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair, “I told you he was fond of her.”

“You have a rather interesting way of showing it, brother mine,” Sherlock commented with a cocked brow.

Mycroft did not give into the bait and simply straightened his jacket, “Since it seems you are in fine health, her detention was no longer necessary.”

“Sure,” Evelyn teased, short curls bouncing as she laughed. “You did a good thing, anyways.”

Sherlock coughed into his shoulder once more and John rested his hand against his chest, “Stay down, love. Too much in one day.”

“Oh shove _off_ ,” he replied snappishly earning him rolled eyes. “I am _fine_ and your mother-henning will not serve anyone any good but yourself.”

“Ideally,” John hummed before leaning over to press a chaste kiss over the chapped lips that held temperate warmth in them. “You’re a brat.”

“You nag.”

“Arse.”

"Idiot."

Evelyn smiled at the banter and hugged herself tightly.

If fate had been unkind, her final conversation with her father would have been of doubt and despondency and she hoped to never have that circumstance again.

_Thank God that wasn’t the last_.

“I still don’t understand,” she said at last, shaking her head. “How-?”

“Don’t question it,” John stated sternly, pursing his lips. “It doesn’t matter. All that _does_ matter is that he’s safe, _you’re_ safe, and our family is still intact. Just be grateful, Evelyn.”

“I am!” She raised her hand up in a placating manner and smiled, “Sorry, that’s not what I- it’s just- I’m just _really_ glad you’re all right, Dad.”

Sherlock smiled and held out his hand to her, “I know you are, love; come here.”

She did as asked and Sherlock cupped her cheek, pulling her down to kiss her forehead, “I love you, little one. Merry Christmas.”

Evelyn grinned back at him and rested her hand over his.

 

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”


End file.
